i  E 


cfe 


THE    STORY   OF    KEXXETT. 


BY 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


NEW   YORK: 
G.   P.   PUTNAM;   HUPtD  AXD  HOUGHTON. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

BAYARD  TAYLOR, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York 


MVEESIDE,    CAKBRrDGE: 

-TEREOIYPED    AND    PRINTED    BT 

H.  0.  HOUQHTON   AND  COMPANY. 


PROLOGUE. 


To  MY  FRIENDS  AND  NEIGHBORS  OF  KENNETT  : 

I  WISH  to  dedicate  this  Story  to  you,  not  only  because 
some  of  you  inhabit  the  very  houses,  and  till  the  very  fields 
which  I  have  given  to  the  actors  in  it,  but  also  because 
many  of  you  will  recognize  certain  of  the  latter,  and  are 
therefore  able  to  judge  whether  they  are  drawn  with  the 
simple  truth  at  which  I  have  aimed.  You  are,  naturally. 
the  critics  whom  I  have  most  cause  to  fear ;  but  I  do  not 
inscribe  these  pages  to  you  with  the  design  of  purchasing 
your  favor.  I  beg  you  all  to  accept  the  fact  as  an  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  many  quiet  and  happy  years  I  have  spent 
among  you  ;  of  the  genial  and  pleasant  relations  into  which 
I  was  born,  and  which  have  never  diminished,  even  when 
I  have  returned  to  you  from  the  farthest  ends  of  the  earth  ; 
and  of  the  use  (often  unconsciously  to  you,  I  confess,)  which 
I  have  drawn  from  your  memories  of  former  days,  your 
habits  of  thought  and  of  life. 

I  am  aware  that  truth  and  fiction  are  so  carefully  woven 
together  in  this  Story  of  Kennett,  that  you  will  sometimes 
be  at  a  loss  to  disentangle  them.  The  lovely  pastoral  land 
scapes  which  I  know  by  heart,  have  been  copied,  field  for 
field  and  tree  for  tree,  and  these  you  will  immediately 


iv  PROLOGUE. 

recognize.  Many  of  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  detecting 
the  originals  of  Sandy  Flash  and  Deb.  Smith  ;  a  few  will 
remember  the  noble  horse  which  performed  the  service  I 
have  ascribed  to  Roger ;  and  the  descendants  of  a  certain 
family  will  not  have  forgotten  some  of  the  pranks  of  Joe 
and  Jake  Fairthorn.  Many  more  than  these  particulars 
are  drawn  from  actual  sources ;  but  as  I  have  employed 
them  with  a  strict  regard  to  the  purposes  of  the  Story, 
transferring  dates  and  characters  at  my  pleasure,  you  will 
often,  I  doubt  not,  attribute  to  invention  that  which  I  owe 
to  family  tradition.  Herein,  I  must  request  that  you  will 
allow  me  to  keep  my  own  counsel ;  for  the  processes  which 
led  to  the  completed  work  extend  through  many  previous 
years,  and  cannot  readily  be  revealed.  I  will  only  say  that 
every  custom  I  have  described  is  true  to  the  time,  though 
some  of  them  are  now  obsolete  ;  that  I  have  used  no  pecu 
liar  word  or  phrase  of  the  common  dialect  of  the  country 
which  I  have  not  myself  heard ;  and  further,  that  I  owe 
the  chief  incidents  of  the  last  chapter,  given  to  me  on  her 
death-bed,  to  the  dear  and  noble  woman  whose  character 
(not  the  circumstances  of  her  life)  I  have  endeavored  to 
reproduce  in  that  of  Martha  Deane. 

The  country  life  of  our  part  of  Pennsylvania  retains  more 
elements  of  its  English  origin  than  that  of  New  England 
or  Virginia.  Until  within  a  few  years,  the  conservative 
influence  of  the  Quakers  was  so  powerful  that  it  continued 
to  shape  the  habits  even  of  communities  whose  religious 
sentiment  it  failed  to  reach.  Hence,  whatever  might  be 
selected  as  incorrect  of  American  life,  in  its  broader  sense, 
in  these  pages,  is  nevertheless  locally  true ;  and  to  this,  at 
least,  all  of  you,  my  Friends  and  Neighbors,  can  testify. 
In  these  days,  when  Fiction  prefers  to  deal  with  abnormal 


PROLOGUE.  v 

characters  and  psychological  problems  more  or  less  excep 
tional  or  morbid,  the  attempt  to  represent  the  elements  of 
life  in  a  simple,  healthy,  pastoral  community,  has  been  to 
me  a  source  of  uninterrupted  enjoyment  May  you  read  it 
with  half  the  interest  I  have  felt  in  writing  it ! 

BAYARD  TAYLOR, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  L 

PAOB 
THE    CHA9B «•••.! 

CHAPTER  IL 

WHO   SHALL   HAVE   THE   BRUSH  ?         .  .  .  .  .  .  14 

CHAPTER  III. 

MARY    POTTER   AND    HER   SOX 23 

CHAPTER   IV. 

FORTUNE    AND    MISFORTUNE 83 

CHAPTER  V. 
QUESTS  AT  FAIRTHORN'S 45 

CHAPTER   VL 

THE   NEW   GILBERT 67 

CHAPTER  VII. 

OLD    KENNETT    MEETING 67 

CHAPTER   VHL 

AT   DR.    DEANE  8          .........  77 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   RAISING 88 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE    RIVALS 102 


PAGE 

,  112 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    XI. 

GUESTS   AT   POTTER  S     .  . 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  EVENTS  OP  AN  EVENING 121 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

TWO    OLD   MEN       .  .  .  •  •  »  •          •  •  •  133 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

DOUBTS   AND    SUEMISES,     .  .  .  •,•-.!»  *  «         143 

CHAPTER  XV. 

ALFRED   BARTON   BETWEEN   TWO   FIRES         .  .  *  *  .166 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

MARTHA  DEANE •  166 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

•**      CONSULTATIONS 179 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

SANDY   FLASH   REAPPEARS 191 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   HUSKING    FROLIC  . 205 

CHAPTER  XX. 

GILBERT    ON    THE    ROAD   TO    CHESTER 219 

CHAPTER   XXI. 

ROGER  REPAYS  HIS  MASTER     ..-,-•     .    .     .  231 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

MARTHA   DEANE   TAKES   A   RESOLUTION  *  .  •         246 

CHAPTER  XXIII.1 

A   CROSS-EXAMINATION  .  .  .   261 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PAGE 
DEB.    SMITH   TAKES   A   RESOLUTION  .....         273 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

TWO    ATTEMPTS      ..........    287 

CHAPTER  XXVL 

THE    LAST    OF    SANDY    FLASH      .......         301 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

GILBERT   INDEPENDENT  .......  315 

CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

MISS    LAVENDElt   MAKES   A   GUESS      ......         327 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MYSTERIOUS   MOVEMENTS      ........    342 


CHAPTER 

THE    FUNERAL   ..........         355 

CHAPTER   XYXT. 

THE   WILL      ...........   367 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

-THE   LOVERS        ..........         382 

CHAPTER  XXXILL 

HUSBAND   AND   WIFE      .........   394 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   WEDDING   .  .        400 


THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    CHASE. 

AT  noon,  on  the  first  Saturday  of  March,  1796,  there 
was  an  unusual  stir  at  the  old  Barton  farm-house,  just 
across  the  creek  to  the  eastward,  as  you  leave  Kennett 
Square  by  the  Philadelphia  stage-road.  Any  gathering  of 
the  people  at  Barton's  was  a  most  rare  occurrence ;  yet,  on 
that  day  and  at  that  hour,  whoever  stood  upon  the  porch  of 
the  corner  house,  in  the  village,  could  see  horsemen  ap 
proaching  by  all  the  four  roads  which  there  met.  Some 
five  or  six  had  already  dismounted  at  the  Unicorn  Tavern, 
and  were  refreshing  themselves  with  stout  glasses  of  "  Old 
Rye,"  while  their  horses,  tethered  side  by  side  to  the  pegs 
in  the  long  hitching-bar,  pawed  and  stamped  impatiently. 
An  eye  familiar  with  the  ways  of  the  neighborhood  might 
have  surmised  the  nature  of  the  occasion  which  called  so 
many  together,  from  the  appearance  and  equipment  of 
these  horses.  They  were  not  heavy  animals,  with  the 
marks  of  plough-collars  on  their  broad  shoulders,  or  the 
hair  worn  off  their  rumps  by  huge  breech-straps  ;  but  light 
and  clean-limbed,  one  or  two  of  them  showing  signs  of 
good  blood,  and  all  more  carefully  groomed  than  usual. 

Evidently,  there  was  no  "  vendue  "  at  the  Barton  farm 
house  ;  neither  a  funeral,  nor  a  wedding,  since  male  guests 
seemed  to  have  been  exclusively  bidden.  To  be  sure, 
Miss  Betsy  Lavender  had  been  observed  to  issue  from  Dr. 
'  1 


2  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Deane's  door,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  turn 
into  the  path  beyond  the  blacksmith's,  which  led  down 
through  the  wood  and  over  the  creek  to  Barton's;  but 
then,  Miss  Lavender  was  known  to  be  handy  at  all  times, 
and  capable  of  doing  all  things,  from  laying  out  a  corpse  to 
•spicing  a  wedding-cake.  Often  self-invited,  •*  but  always 
welcome,  very  few  social  or  domestic  events  could  occur  in 
four  townships  (East  Marlborough,  Kennett,  Pennsbury, 
and  New- Garden)  without  her  presence  ;  while  her  knowl 
edge  of  farms,  families,  and  genealogies  extended  up  to 
Fallowfield  on  one  side,  and  over  to  Birmingham  on  the 
other. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  matter  of  course,  whatever  the  pres 
ent  occasion  might  be,  that  Miss  Lavender  put  on  her 
broad  gray  beaver  hat,  and  brown  stuff  cloak,  and  took  the 
way  to  Barton's.  The  distance  could  easily  be  walked  in 
five  minutes,  and  the  day  was  remarkably  pleasant  for  the 
season.  A  fortnight  of  warm,  clear  weather  had  extracted 
the  last  fang  of  frost,  and  there  was  already  green  grass  in 
the  damp  hollows.  Bluebirds  picked  the  last  year's  berries 
from  the  cedar-trees  ;  buds  were  bursting  on  the  swamp- 
willows  ;  the  alders  were  hung  with  tassels,  and  a  powdery 
crimson  bloom  began  to  dust  the  bare  twigs  of  the  maple- 
trees.  All  these  signs  of  an  early  spring  Miss  Lavender 
noted  as  she  picked  her  way  down  the  wooded  bank.  Once, 
indeed,  she  stopped,  we,t  her  forefinger  with  her  tongue,  and 
held  it  pointed  in  the  air.  There  was  very  little  breeze,  but 
this  natural  weathercock  revealed  from  what  direction  it 
came. 

"  Southwest ! "  she  said,  nod'ding  her  head  —  "  Lucky  !  " 
Having  crossed  the  creek  on  a  flat  log.  secured  with 
stakes  at  either  end,  a  few  more  paces  brought  her  to  the 
warm,  gentle  knoll,  upon  which  stood  the  farm-house. 
Here,  the  wood  ceased,  and  the  creek,  sweeping  around  to 
the  eastward,  embraced  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  rich  bottom 
land,  before  entering  the  rocky  dell  below.  It  was  a  pleas- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  3 

ant  seat,  and  the  age  of  the  house  denoted  that  one  of  the 
earliest  settlers  had  been  quick  to  perceive  its  advantages. 
A  hundred  years  had  already  elapsed  since  the  masons  had 
run  up  those  walls  of  rusty  hornblende  rock,  and  it  was 
even  said  that  the  leaden  window-sashes,  with  their  dia 
mond-shaped  panes  of  greenish  glass,  had  been  brought 
over  from  England,  in  the  days  of  William  Penn.  In  fact, 
the  ancient  aspect  of  the  place  —  the  tall,  massive  chimney 
at  the  gable,  the  heavy,  projecting  eaves,  and  the  holly-bush 
in  a  warm  nook  beside  the  front  porch,  had,  nineteen  years 
before,  so  forcibly  reminded  one  of  Howe's  soldiers  of  his 
father's  homestead  in  mid-Englancl,  that  he  was  numbered 
among  the  missing  after  the  Brandywine  battle,  and  pres 
ently  turned  up  as  a  hired  hand  on  the  Barton  farm,  where 
he  still  lived,  year  in  and  year  out. 

An  open,  grassy  space,  a  hundred  yards  in  breadth,  in 
tervened  between  the  house  and  the  barn,  which  was  built 
against  the  slope  of  the  knoll,  so  that  the  bridge  to  the 
threshing-floor  was  nearly  level,  and  the  stables  below  were 
sheltered  from  the  north  winds,  and  open  to  the  winter  sun. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  lane  leading  from  the  high-road 
stood  a  wagon-house  and  corn-crib  —  the  latter  empty,  yet 
evidently,  in  spite  of  its  emptiness,  the  principal  source  of 
attraction  to  the  visitors.  A  score  of  men  and  boys  peeped 
between  the  upright  laths,  and  a  dozen  dogs  howled  and 
sprang  around  the  smooth  corner-posts  upon  which  the 
structure  rested.  At  the  door  stood  old  Giles,  the  military 
straggler  already  mentioned  —  now  a  grizzly,  weather- 
beaten  man  of  fifty  —  with  a  jolly  grin  on  his  face,  and  a 
short  leather  whip  in  his  hand. 

k>  AVant  to  see  him,  Miss  Betsy  ?  "  he  asked,  touching  his 
mink-skin  cap,  as  Miss  Lavender  crawled  through  the  near 
est  panel  of  the  lofty  picket  fence. 

"  See  him  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Don't  care  if  I  do,  afore 
goin'  into  th'  house." 

"  Come  up,  then ;  out  o'  the  way,  Cato  !     Fan,  take  that, 


4  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

you  slut !  Don't  be  afeard,  Miss  Betsy  ;  if  folks  kept  'em 
in  the  leash,  as  had  ought  to  be  done,  I  'd  have  less  trouble. 
They  're  mortal  eager,  and  no  wonder.  There  !  —  a'n't 
he  a  sly-lookin'  divel  ?  If  I'd  a  hoss,  Miss  Betsy,  I'd  fol- 
ler  with  the  best  of  'em,  and  maybe  you  would  n't  have 
the  brush?" 

"  Have  the  brush.  Go  along,  Giles  !  He  's  an  old  one, 
and  knows  how  to  take  care  of  it.  Do  keep  off  the  dread 
ful  dogs,  and  let  me  git  down  ! "  cried  Miss  Lavender, 
gathering  her  narrow  petticoats  about  her  legs,  and  survey 
ing  the  struggling  animals  before  her  with  some  dismay. 

Giles's  whip  only  reached  the  nearest,  and  the  excited 
pack  rushed  forward  again  after  every  repulse ;  but  at  this 
juncture  a  tall,  smartly-dressed  man  came  across  the  lane, 
kicked  the  hounds  out  of  the  way,  and  extended  a  helping 
hand  to  the  lady. 

«  Ho,  Mr.  Alfred !  "  said  she  ;  "  Much  obliged.  Miss 
Ann  's  havin'  her  hands  full,  I  reckon  ?  " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  slipped  into  the  yard 
and  along  the  front  of  the  house,  to  the  kitchen  entrance, 
at  the  eastern  end.  There  we  will  leave  her,  and  return  to 
the  group  of  gentlemen. 

Any  one  could  see  at  a  glance  that  Mr.  Alfred  Barton 
was  the  most  important  person  present.  His  character  of 
host  gave  him,  of  course,  the  right  to  control  the  order  of 
the  coming  chase;  but  his  size  and  swaggering  air  of 
strength,  his  new  style  of  hat,  the  gloss  of  his  blue  coat, 
the  cut  of  his  buckskin  breeches,  and  above  all,  the  splen 
dor  of  his  tasselled  top-boots,  distinguished  him  from  his 
more  homely  apparelled  guests.  His  features  were  large 
and  heavy :  the  full,  wide  lips  betrayed  a  fondness  for  in 
dulgence,  and  the  small,  uneasy  eyes  a  capacity  for  con 
cealing  this  and  any  other  quality  which  needed  conceal 
ment.  They  were  hard  and  cold,  generally  more  than  half 
hidden  under  thick  lids,  and  avoided,  rather  than  sought, 
the  glance  of  the  man  to  whom  he  spoke.  His  hair,  a 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  5 

mixture  of  red-brown  and  gray,  descended,  without  a 
break,  into  bushy  whiskers  of  the  same  color,  and  was  cut 
shorter  at  the  back  of  the  head  than  was  then  customary. 
Something  coarse  and  vulgar  in  his  nature  exhalejl,  like  a 
powerful  odor,  through  the  assumed  shell  of  a  gentleman, 
which  he  tried  to  wear,  and  rendered  the  assumption 
useless. 

A  few  guests,  who  had  come  from  a  distance,  had  just 
finished  their  dinner  in  the  farm-house.  Owing  to  causes 
which  will  hereafter  be  explained,  they  exhibited  less  than 
the  usual  plethoric  satisfaction  after  the  hospitality  of  the 
country,  and  were  the  first  to  welcome  the  appearance  of 
a  square  black  bottle,  which  went  the  rounds,  with  the  ob 
servation  :  "  Whet  up  for  a  start ! " 

Mr.  Barton  drew  a  heavy  silver  watch  from  his  fob,  and 
carefully  holding  it  so  that  the  handful  of  glittering  seals 
could  be  seen  by  everybody,  appeared  to  meditate. 

"  Five  minutes  to  one,"  he  said  at  last.  "  No  use  in 
waiting  much  longer ;  't  is  n't  good  to  keep  the  hounds 
fretting.  Any  signs  of  anybody  else  ?  " 

The  others,  in  response,  turned  towards  the  lane  and 
highway.  Some,  with  keen  eyes,  fancied  they  could  detect 
a  horseman  through  the  wood.  Presently  Giles,  from  his 
perch  at  the  door  of  the  corn-crib,  cried  out : 

"  There  's  somebody  a-comin'  up  the  meadow.  I  don't 
know  the  hoss ;  rides  like  Gilbert  Potter.  Gilbert  it  is, 
blast  me !  new-mounted." 

"  Another  plough-horse ! "  suggested  Mr.  Joel  Ferris,  a 
young  Pennsbiiry  buck,  who,  having  recently  come  into  a 
legacy  of  four  thousand  pounds,  wished  it  to  be  forgotten 
that  he  had  never  ridden  any  but  plough-horses  until  within 
the  year. 

The  others  laughed,  some  contemptuously,  glancing  at 
their  own  well-equipped  animals  the  while,  some  constrain 
edly,  for  they  knew  the  approaching  guest,  and  felt  a  slight 
compunction  in  seeming  to  side  with  Mr.  Ferris.  Barton 


6  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

began  to  smile  stiffly,  but  presently  bit  his  lip  and  drew 
his  brows  together. 

Pressing  the  handle  of  his  riding-whip  against  his  chin, 
he  stared  vacantly  up  the  lane,  muttering  "  We  must  wait, 
I  suppose." 

His  lids  were  lifted  in  wonder  the  next  moment;  he 
seized  Ferris  by  the  arm,  and  exclaimed :  — 

"  Whom  have  we  here  ?  " 

All  eyes  turned  in  the  same  direction,  descried  a  dashing 
horseman  in  the  lane. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know,"  said  Ferris.  "  Anybody 
expected  from  the  Fagg's  Manor  way  ?  " 

"  Not  of  my  inviting,"  Barton  answered. 

The  other  guests  professed  their  entire  ignorance  of  the 
stranger,  who,  having  by  this  time  passed  the  bars,  rode 
directly  up  to  the  group.  Pie  was  a  short,  broad-shoul 
dered  man  of  nearly  forty,  with  a  red,  freckled  face,  keen, 
snapping  gray  eyes,  and  a  close,  wide  mouth.  Thick,  jet- 
black  whiskers,  eyebrows  and  pig-tail  made  the  glance  of 
those  eyes,  the  gleam  of-  his  teeth,  and  the  color  of  his 
skin  where  it  was  not  reddened  by  the  wind,  quite  daz 
zling.  This  violent  and  singular  contrast  gave  his  plain, 
common  features  an  air  of  distinction.  Although  his  mul 
berry  coat  was  somewhat  faded,  it  had  a  jaunty  cut,  and  if 
his  breeches  were  worn  and  stained,  the  short,  muscular 
thighs  and  strong  knees  they  covered,  told  of  a  practised 
horseman. 

He  rode  a  large  bay  gelding,  poorly  groomed,  and  ap 
parently  not  remarkable  for  blood,  but  with  no  marks  of 
harness  on  his  rough  coat. 

"Good -day  to  you,  gentlemen!"  said  the  stranger, 
familiarly  knocking  the  handle  of  'his  whip  against  his 
cocked  hat.  "  Squire  Barton,  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  responded  Mr.  Barton,  instantly 
flattered  by  the  title,  to  which  he  had  no  legitimate  right. 
"  I  believe,"  he  added,  "  you  have  the  advantage  of  me." 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  7 

A  broad  smile,  or  rather  grin,  spread  over  the  stranger's 
face.  His  teeth  flashed,  and  his  eyes  shot  forth  a  bright, 
malicious  ray.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  ran  rapidly  over 
the  faces  of  the  others  without  perceptibly  moving  his 
head,  and  noting  the  general  curiosity,  said,  at  last :  — 

"  I  hardly  expected  to  find  an  acquaintance  in  this  neigh 
borhood,  but  a  chase  makes  quick  fellowship.  I  happened 
to  hear  of  it  at  the  Anvil  Tavern,  —  am  on  my  way  to  the 
Rising  Sun ;  so,  you  see,  if  the  hunt  goes  down  Tuff  kena- 
mon,  as  is  likely,  it 's  so  much  of  a  lift  on  the  way." 

"  All  right,  — glad  to  have  you  join  us.  What  did  you 
say  your  name  was  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Barton. 

"  I  did  n't  say  what ;  it 's  Fortune,  —  a  fortune  left  to 
me  by  my  father,  ha  !  ha  !  Don't  care  if  I  do  "  — 

With  the  latter  words,  Fortune  (as  we  must  now  call 
him)  leaned  down  from  his  saddle,  took  the  black  bottle 
from  the  unresisting  hands  of  Mr.  Ferris,  inverted  it 
against  his  lips,  and  drank  so  long  and  luxuriously  as  to 
bring  water  into  the  mouths  of  the  spectators.  Then, 
wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  freckled  hand,  he 
winked  and  nodded  his  head  approvingly  to  Mi.  Barton. 

Meanwhile  the  other  horseman  had  arrived  from  the 
meadow,  after  dismounting  and  letting  down  the  bars,  over 
which  his  horse  stepped  slowly  and  cautiously,  —  a  circum 
stance  which  led  some  of  the  younger  guests  to  exchange 
quiet,  amused  glances.  Gilbert  Potter,  however,  received 
a  hearty  greeting  from  all,  including  the  host,  though  the 
latter,  by  an  increased  shyness  in  meeting  his  gaze,  mani 
fested  some  secret  constraint. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  should  have  been  too  late,"  said  Gilbert  : 
"  the  old  break  in  the  hedge  is  stopped  at  last,  so  I  came 
over  the  hill  above,  without  thinking  on  the  swampy  bit, 
this  side." 

"  Breaking  your  horse  in  to  rough  riding,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Ferris,  touching  a  neighbor  with  his  elbow. 

Gilbert  smiled  good-humoredly,  but  said  nothing,  and  a 
little  laugh  went  around  the  circle. 


8  THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT. 

Mr.  Fortune  seemed  to  understand  the  matter  in  a  flash. 
He  looked  at  the  brown,  shaggy-maned  animal,  standing 
behind  its  owner,  with  its  head  down,  and  said,  in  a  low, 
sharp  tone :  "  I  see  —  where  did  you  get  him  ?  " 

Gilbert  returned  the  speaker's  gaze  a  moment  before 
he  answered.  "  From  a  drover,"  he  then  said. 

"  By  the  Lord !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Barton,  who  had  again 
conspicuously  displayed  his  watch,  "  it 's  over  half-past  one. 
Look  out  for  the  hounds,  —  we  must  start,  if  we  mean  to 
do  any  riding  this  day !  " 

The  owners  of  the  hounds  picked  out  their  several  ani 
mals  and  dragged  them  aside,  in  which  operation  they 
were  uproariously  assisted  by  the  boys.  The  chase  in 
Kennett,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  but  a  very  faint  shadow 
of  the  old  English  pastime.  It  had  been  kept  up,  in  the 
neighborhood,  from  the  force  of  habit  in  the  Colonial 
times,  and  under  the  depression  which  the  strong  Quaker 
element  among  the  people  exercised  upon  all  sports  and 
recreations.  The  breed  of  hounds,  not  being  restricted  to 
close  communion,  had  considerably  degenerated,  and  few, 
even  of  the  richer  farmers,  could  afford  to  keep  thorough 
bred  hunters  for  this  exclusive  object.  Consequently  all  the 
features  of  the  pastime  had  become  rude  and  imperfect, 
and,  although  very  respectable  gentlemen  still  gave  it  their 
countenance,  there  was  a  growing  suspicion  that  it  was  a 
questionable,  if  not  demoralizing  diversion.  It  would  be 
more  agreeable  if  we  could  invest  the  present  occasion  with 
a  little  more  pomp  and  dignity  ;  but  we  must  describe  the 
event  precisely  as  it  occurred. 

The  first  to  greet  Gilbert  were  his  old  friends,  Joe  and 
Jake  Fairthorn.  These  boys  loudly  lamented  that  their 
ftaher  had  denied  them  the  loan  of  his  old  gray  mare, 
Bonnie;  they  could  ride  double  on  a  gallop,  they  said; 
and  would  n't  Gilbert  take  them  along,  one  before  and  one 
behind  him  ?  But  he  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  we  've  got  Watch,  anyhow,"  said  Joe,  who  there- 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  9 

upon  began  whispering  very  earnestly  to  Jake,  as  the 
latter  seized  the  big  family  bull-dog  by  the  collar.  Gil 
bert  foreboded  mischief,  and  kept  his  eye  upon  the 
pair. 

A  scuffle  was  heard  in  the  corn-crib,  into  which  Giles 
had  descended.  The  boys  shuddered  and  chuckled  in  a 
state  of  delicious  fear,  which  changed  into  a  loud  shout  of 
triumph,  as  the  soldier  again  made  his  appearance  at  the 
door,  with  the  fox  in  his  arms,  and  a  fearless  hand  around 
its  muzzle. 

"  By  George !  what  a  fine  brush ! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Ferris. 

A  sneer,  quickly  disguised  in  a  grin,  ran  over  Fortune's 
face.  The  hounds  howled  and  tugged ;  Giles  stepped 
rapidly  across  the  open  space  where  the  knoll  sloped 
down  to  the  meadow.  It  was  a  moment  of  intense  expec 
tation. 

Just  then.  Joe  and  Jake  Fairthorn  let  go  their  hold  on 
the  bull-dog's  collar ;  but  Gilbert  Potter  caught  the  animal 
at  the  second  bound.  The  boys  darted  behind  the  corn- 
crib,  scared  less  by  Gilbert's  brandished  whip  than  by  the 
wrath  and  astonishment  in  Mr.  Barton's  face. 

"  Cast  hun  off,  Giles !"  the  latter  cried. 

The  fox,  placed  upon  the  ground,  shot  down  the  slope 
and  through  the  fence  into  the  meadow.  Pausing  then, 
as  if  first  to  assure  himself  of  his  liberty,  he  took  a  quick, 
keen  survey  of  the  ground  before  him,  and  then  started  off 
towards  the  left. 

"  He  's  making  for  the  rocks ! "  cried  Mr.  Ferris  ;  to 
which  the  stranger,  who  was  now  watching  the  animal  with 
sharp  interest,  abruptly  answered,  "  Hold  your  tongue ! " 

Within  a  hundred  yards  the  fox  turned  to  the  right,  and 
now,  having  apparently  made  up  his  mind  to  the  course, 
struck  away  in  a  steady  but  not  hurried  trot.  In  a  minute 
he  had  reached  the  outlying  trees  of  the  timber  along  the 
creek. 


10  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  He  's  a  cool  one,  he  is !  "  remarked  Giles,  admiringly. 

By  this  time  he  was  hidden  by  the  barn  from  the  sight 
of  the  hounds,  and  they  were  let  loose.  While  they  darted 
about  in  eager  quest  of  the  scent,  the  hunters  mounted  in 
haste.  Presently  an  old  dog  gave  tongue  like  a  trumpet, 
the  pack  closed,  and  the  horsemen  followed.  The  boys  kept 
pace  with  them  over  the  meadow,  Joe  and  Jake  taking  the 
lead,  until  the  creek  abruptly  stopped  their  race,  when 
they  sat  down  upon  the  bank  and  cried  bitterly,  as  the  last 
of  the  hunters  disappeared  through  the  thickets  on  the 
further  side. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  high  picket-fence  confronted 
the  riders.  Mr.  Ferris,  with  a  look  of  dismay,  dismounted. 
Fortune,  Barton,  and  Gilbert  Potter  each  threw  off  a 
heavy  "  rider,"  and  leaped  their  horses  over  the  rails. 
The  others  followed  through  the  gaps  thus  made,  and  all 
swept  across  the  field  at  full  speed,  guided  by  the  ring 
ing  cry  of  the  hounds. 

When  they  reached  the  Wilmington  road,  the  cry  swerved 
again  to  the  left,  and  most  of  the  hunters,  with  Barton  at 
their  head,  took  the  highway  in  order  to  reach  the  cross 
road  to  New- Garden  more  conveniently.  Gilbert  and 
Fortune  alone  sprang  into  the  opposite  field,  and  kept  a 
straight  southwestern  course  for  the  other  branch  of  Red- 
ley  Creek.  The  field  was  divided  by  a  stout  thorn-hedge 
from  the  one  beyond  it,  and  the  two  horsemen,  careering 
neck  and  neck,  glanced  at  each  other  curiously  as  they 
approached  this  barrier.  Their  respective  animals  were 
transformed;  the  unkempt  manes  were  curried  by  the 
wind,  as  they  flew  ;  their  sleepy  eyes  wrere  full  of  fire,  and 
the  splendid  muscles,  aroused  to  complete  action,  marked 
their  hides  with  lines  of  beauty.  There  was  no  wavering 
in  either ;  side  by  side  they  hung  in  flight  above  the  hedge, 
and  side  by  side  struck  the  clean  turf  beyond. 

Then  Fortune  turned  his  head,  nodded  approvingly  to 
Gilbert,  and  muttered  to  himself:  "  He  's  a  gallant  fellow, 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  11 

—  I  '11  not  rob  him  of  the  brush."  But  he  laughed  a  short, 
shrill,  wicked  laugh  the  next  moment. 

Before  they  reached  the  creek,  the  cry  of  the  hounds 
ceased.  They  halted  a  moment  on  the  bank,  irresolute. 

"  He  must  have  gone  down  towards  the  snuff-mill,"  said 
Gilbert,  and  was  about  to  change  his  course. 

"  Stop,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  if  he  has,  we  've  lost  him  any 
way.  Hark  !  hurrah  !  " 

A  deep  bay  rang  from  the  westward,  through  the  forest. 
Gilbert  shouted :  "  The  lime-quarry ! "  and  dashed  across 
the  stream.  A  lane  was  soon  reached,  and  as  the  valley 
opened,  they  saw  the  whole  pack  heading  around  the  yel 
low  mounds  of  earth  which  marked  the  locality  of  the 
quarry.  At  the  same  instant  some  one  shouted  in  the  rear, 
and  they  saw  Mr.  Alfred.  Barton,  thundering  after,  and  ap 
parently  bent  on  diminishing  the  distance  between  them. 

A  glance  was  sufficient  to  show  that  the  fox  had  not 
taken  refuge  in  the  quarry,  but  was  making  a  straight 
course  up  the  centre  of  the  valley.  Here  it  was  not  so 
easy  to  follow.  The  fertile  floor  of  Tuffkenamon,  stripped 
of  woods,  was  crossed  by  lines  of  compact  hedge,  and, 
moreover,  the  huntsmen  were  not  free  to  tear  and  trample 
the  springing  wheat  of  the  thrifty  Quaker  farmers.  Nev 
ertheless,  one  familiar  with  the  ground  could  take  advan 
tage  of  a  gap  here  and  there,  choose  the  connecting  pas 
ture-fields,  and  favor  his  course  with  a  bit  of  road,  when 
the  chase  swerved  towards  either  side  of  the  valley.  Gil 
bert  Potter  soon  took  the  lead,  closely  followed  by  For 
tune.  Mr.  Barton  was  perhaps  better  mounted  than  either, 
but  both  horse  and  rider  were  heavier,  and  lost  in  the 
moist  fields,  while  they  gained  rapidly  where  the  turf  was 
firm. 

After  a  mile  and  a  half  of  rather  toilsome  riding,  all 
three  were  nearly  abreast.  The  old  tavern  of  the  Ham 
mer  and  Trowel  was  visible,  at  the  foot  of  the  northern 
hill ;  the  hounds,  in  front,  bayed  in  a  straight  line  towards 


12  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Avondale  Woods,  —  but  a  long  slip  of  undrained  bog  made 
its  appearance.  Neither  gentleman  spoke,  for  each  was 
silently  tasking  his  wits  how  to  accomplish  the  passage 
most  rapidly.  The  horses  began  to  sink  into  the  oozy 
soil ;  only  a  very  practised  eye  could  tell  where  the  sur 
face  was  firmest,  and  even  this  knowledge  was  but  slight 
advantage. 

Nimbly  as  a  cat  Gilbert  sprang  from  the  saddle,  still 
holding  the  pummel  in  his  right  hand,  touched  his  horse's 
flank  with  the  whip,  and  bounded  from  one  tussock  to 
another.  The  sagacious  animal  seemed  to  understand  and 
assist  his  manoeuvre.  Hardly  had  he  gained  firm  ground 
than  he  was  in  his  seat  again,  while  Mr.  Barton  was  still 
plunging  in  the  middle  of  the  bog. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  the  road,  Gilbert  shrewdly 
guessed  where  the  chase  would  terminate.  The  idlers  on 
the  tavern-porch  cheered  him  as  he  swept  around  the 
corner ;  the  level  highway  rang  to  the  galloping  hoofs  of 
his  steed,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  he  had  passed  the  long 
and  lofty  oak  woods  of  Avondale.  At  the  same  moment, 
fox  and  hounds  broke  into  full  view,  sweeping  up  the 
meadow  on  his  left.  The  animal  made  a  last  desperate 
effort  to  gain  a  lair  among  the  bushes  and  loose  stones  on 
the  northern  hill;  but  the  hunter  was  there  before  him, 
the  hounds  were  within  reach,  and  one  faltering  moment 
decided  his  fate. 

Gilbert  sprang  down  among  the  frantic  dogs,  and  saved 
the  brush  from  the  rapid  dismemberment  which  had  al 
ready  befallen  its  owner.  Even  then,  he  could  only  as 
sure  its  possession  by  sticking  it  into  his  hat  and  remount 
ing  his  horse.  When  he  looked  around,  no  one  was  in 
sight,  but  the  noise  of  hoofs  was  heard  crashing  through 
the  wood. 

Mr.  Ferris,  with  some  dozen  others,  either  anxious  to 
spare  their  horses  or  too  timid  to  take  the  hedges  in  the 
valley,  had  kept  the  cross-road  to  New- Garden,  whence  a 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  13 


lane  along  the  top  of  the  southern  hill  led  them  into  the 
Avondale  Woods.  They  soon  emerged,  shouting  and  yell 
ing,  upon  the  meadow. 

The  chase  was  up ;  and  Gilbert  Potter,  on  his  "  plough 
horse,"  was  the  only  huntsman  in  at  the  death. 


14  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHO  SHALL  HAVE  THE  BRUSH? 

MR.  BARTON  and  Fortune,  who  seemed  to  have  become 
wonderfully  intimate  during  the  half  hour  in  which  they 
had  ridden  together,  arrived  at  the  same  time.  The  hunt 
ers,  of  whom  a  dozen  were  now  assembled  (some  five  or 
six  inferior  horses  being  still  a  mile  in  the  rear),  were  all 
astounded,  and  some  of  them  highly  vexed,  at  the  result 
of  the  chase.  Gilbert's  friends  crowded  about  him,  asking 
questions  as  to  the  course  he  had  taken,  and  examining  the 
horse,  which  had  maliciously  resumed  its  sleepy  look,  and 
stood  with  drooping  head.  The  others  had  not  sufficient 
tact  to  disguise  their  ill-humor,  for  they  belonged  to  that 
class  which,  in  all  countries,  possesses  the  least  refinement 
—  the  uncultivated  rich. 

"  The  hunt  started  well,  but  it 's  a  poor  finish,"  said  one 
of  these. 

"  Never  mind  !  "  Mr.  Ferris  remarked  ;  "  such  things 
come  by  chance." 

These  words  struck  the  company  to  silence.  A  shock, 
felt  rather  than  perceived,  fell  upon  them,  and  they  looked 
at  each  other  with  an  expression  of  pain  and  embarrass 
ment.  Gilbert's  face  faded  to  a  sallow  paleness,  and  his 
eyes  were  fastened  upon  those  of  the  speaker  with  a  fierce 
and  dangerous  intensity.  Mr.  Ferris  colored,  turned  away, 
and  called  to  his  hounds. 

Fortune  was  too  sharp  an  observer  not  to  remark  the 
disturbance.  He  cried  out,  and  his  words  produced  an  in 
stant,  general  sense  of  relief :  — 

"  It 's  been  a  fine  run,  friends,  and  we  can't  do  better 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  15 

than  ride  back  to  the  Hammer  and  Trowel,  and  take  a 
*  smaller '  —  or  a  •  bigger '  for  that  matter  —  at  my  expense. 
You  must  let  me  pay  my  footing  now,  for  I  hope  to  ride 
with  you  many  a  time  to  come.  Faith !  If  I  don't  happen 
to  buy  that  place  down  by  the  Rising  Sun,  I  '11  try  to  find 
another,  somewhere  about  New  London  or  Westgrove,  so 
that  we  can  be  nearer  neighbors." 

With  that  he  grinned,  rather  than  smiled ;  but  although 
his  manner  would  have  struck  a  cool  observer  as  being 
mocking  instead  of  cordial,  the  invitation  was  accepted  with 
great  show  of  satisfaction,  and  the  horsemen  fell  into  pairs, 
forming  a  picturesque  cavalcade  as  they  passed  under  the 
tall,  leafless  oaks. 

Gilbert  Potter  speedily  recovered  his  self-possession,  but 
his  face  was  stern  and  his  manner  abstracted.  Even  the 
marked  and  careful  kindness  of  his  friends  seemed  secretly 
to  annoy  him.  for  it  constantly  suggested  the  something  by 
which  it  had  been  prompted.  Mr.  Alfred  Barton,  how 
ever,  whether  under  the  influence  of  Fortune's  friendship, 
or  from  a  late  suspicion  of  his  duties  as  host  of  the  clay, 
not  unkindly  complimented  the  young  man,  and  insisted 
on  filling  his  glass.  Gilbert  could  do  no  less  than  courte 
ously  accept  the  attention,  but  he  shortly  afterwards  stole 
away  from  the  noisy  company,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
slowly  towards  Kennett  Square. 

As  he  thus  rides,  with  his  eyes  abstractedly  fixed  before 
him,  we  wil^  take  the  opportunity  to  observe  him  more 
closely.  Slightly  under-sized,  compactly  built,  and  with 
strongly-marked  features,  his  twenty-four  years  have  the 
effect  of  thirty.  His  short  jacket  and  knee-breeches  of 
gray  velveteen  cover  a  chest  broad  rather  than  deep,  and 
reveal  the  fine,  narrow  loins  and  muscular  thighs  of  a 
frame  matured  and  hardened  by  labor.  His  hands,  also, 
are  hard  and  strong,  but  not  ungraceful  in  form.  His 
neck,  not  too  short,  is  firmly  planted,  and  the  carriage  of 
his  head  indicates  patience  and  energy.  Thick,  dark  hair 


16  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

enframes  his  square  forehead,  and  straight,  somewhat  heavy 
brows.  His  eyes  of  soft  dark-gray,  are  large,  clear,  and 
steady,  and  only  change  their  expression  under  strong  ex 
citement.  His  nose  is  straight  and  short,  his  mouth  a  little 
too  wide  for  beauty,  and  less  firm  now  than  it  will  be  ten 
years  hence,  when  the  yearning  tenderness  shall  have  van 
ished  from  the  corners  of  the  lips ;  and  the  chin,  in  its 
broad  curve,  harmonizes  with  the  square  lines  of  the  brow. 
Evidently  a  man  whose  youth  has  not  been  a  holiday  ;  who 
is  reticent  rather  than  demonstrative ;  who  will  be  strong 
in  his  loves  and  long  in  his  hates  ;  and,  without  being  of  a 
despondent  nature,  can  never  become  heartily  sanguine. 

The  spring-day  was  raw  and  overcast,  as  it  drew  towards 
its  close,  and  the  rider's  musings  seemed  to  accord  with 
the  change  in  the  sky.  His  face  expressed  a  singular  mix 
ture  of  impatience,  determined  will,  and  unsatisfied  desire. 
But  where  most  other  men  would  have  sighed,  or  given 
way  to  some  involuntary  exclamation,  he  merely  set  his 
teeth,  and  tightened  the  grasp  on  his  whip-handle. 

He  was  not  destined,  however,  to  a  solitary  journey. 
Scarcely  had  he  made  three  quarters  of  a  mile,  when,  on 
approaching  the  junction  of  a  wood-road  which  descende'd 
to  the  highway  from  a  shallow  little  glen  on  the  north,  the 
sound  of  hoofs  and  voices  met  his  ears.  Two  female  fig 
ures  appeared,  slowly  guiding  their  horses  down  the  rough 
road.  One,  from  her  closely-fitting  riding-habit  of  drab 
cloth,  might  have  been  a  Quakeress,  but  for  the  feather  (of 
the  same  sober  color)  in  her  beaver  hat,  and  tne  rosette  of 
dark  red  ribbon  at  her  throat.  The  other,  in  bluish-gray, 
with  a  black  beaver  and  no  feather,  rode  a  heavy  old  horse 
with  a  blind  halter  on  his  head,  and  held  the  stout  leathern 
reins  with  a  hand  covered  with  a  blue  woollen  mitten.  She 
rode  in  advance,  paying  little  heed  to  her  seat,  but  rather 
twisting  herself  out  of  shape  in  the  saddle  in  order  to  chat 
ter  to  her  companion  in  the  rear. 

"  Do  look  where  you  are  going,  Sally  ! "  cried  the  latter, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  17 

as  the  blinded  horse  turned  aside  from  the  road  to  drink 
at  a  little  brook  that  oozed  forth  from  under  the  dead 
leaves. 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  other  lady  whirled  around  with  a 
half-jump,  and  caught  sight  of  Gilbert  Potter  and  of  her 
horse's  head  at  the  same  instant 

"Whoa  there,  Bonnie!"  she  cried.  "Why,  Gilbert, 
where  olid  you  come  from?  Hold  up  your  head.  I  say  ! 
Martha,  here  's  Gilbert,  with  a  brush  in  his  hat !  Don't 
be  afraid,  you  beast ;  did  you  never  smell  a  fox  ?  Here, 
ride  in  between,  Gilbert,  and  tell  us  all  about  it !  Xo.  not 
on  that  side,  Martha ;  you  can  manage  a  horse  better  than 
I  can  ! " 

In  her  efforts  to  arrange  the  order  of  march,  she  drove 
her  horse's  head  into  Gilbert's  back,  and  came  near  losing 
her  balance.  With  amused  screams,  and  bursts  of  laugh 
ter,  and  light,  rattling  exclamations,  she  finally  succeeded 
in  placing  herself  at  his  left  hand,  while  her  adroit  and 
self-possessed  companion  quietly  rode  up  to  his  right 
Then,  dropping  the  reins  on  their  horses'  necks,  the  two 
ladies  resigned  themselves  to  conversation,  as  the  three 
slowly  jogged  homewards  abreast. 

"  Now,  Gilbert !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Sally  Fairthorn,  after 
waiting  a  moment  for  him  to  speak  ;  "'did  you  really  earn 
the  brush,  or  beg  it  from  one  of  them,  on  the  way  home?" 

"  Begging,  you  know,  is  my  usual  habit,"  he  answered, 
mockingly. 

"I  I.  now  you're  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  when  you've  a 
mind  to  be  so.  There !  " 

Gilbert  was  accustomed  to  the  rattling  tongue  of  his 
left-hand  rioighbor,  and  generally  returned  her  as  good  as 
she  gave.  To-day,  however,  he  was  in  no  mood  for  repar 
tee.  He  drew  down  his  brows  and  made  no  answer  to  her 
charge. 

"  Where  was  the  fox  earthed  ? "  asked  the  other  lady, 
after  a  rapid  glance  at  his  face. 

2 


18  THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT. 

Martha  Deane's  voice  was  of  that  quality  which  compels 
an  answer,  and  a  courteous  answer,  from  the  surliest  of 
mankind.  It  was  not  loud,  it  could  scarcely  be  called 
musical ;  but  every  tone  seemed  to  exhale  freshness  as  of 
dew,  and  brightness  as  of  morning.  It  was  pure,  slightly 
resonant ;  and  all  the  accumulated  sorrows  of  life  could 
not  have  veiled  its  inherent  gladness.  It  could  never  grow 
harsh,  never  be  worn  thin,  or  sound  husky  from  weariness ; 
its  first  characteristic  would  always  be  youth,  and  the  joy 
of  youth,  though  it  came  from  the  lips  of  age. 

Doubtless  Gilbert  Potter  did  not  analyze  the  charm 
which  it  exercised  upon  him ;  it  was  enough  that  he  felt 
and  submitted  to  it.  A  few  quiet  remarks  sufficed  to  draw 
from  him  the  story  of  the  chase,  in  all  its  particulars,  and 
the  lively  interest  in  Martha  Deane's  face,  the  boisterous 
glee  of  Sally  Fairthorn,  with  his  own  lurking  sense  of  tri 
umph,  soon  swept  every  gloomy  line  from  his  visage.  His 
mouth  relaxed  from  its  set  compression,  and  wore  a  win 
ning  sweetness ;  his  eyes  shone  softly-bright,  and  a  nimble 
spirit  of  gayety  gave  grace  to  his  movements. 

"  Fairly  won,  I  must  say  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Sally  Fair- 
thorn,  when  the  narrative  was  finished.  "  And  now,  Gil 
bert,  the  brush  ?  "  . 

"  The  brush  ?  " 

"  Who  's  to  have  it,  I  mean.  Did  you  never  get  one  be 
fore,  as  you  don't  seem  to  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  he,  in  an  indifferent  tone  ;  "  it 
may  be  had  for  the  asking." 

"  Then  it 's  mine !  "  cried  Sally,  urging  her  heavy  horse 
against  him  and  making  a  clutch  at  his  cap.  But  he  leaned 
as  suddenly  away,  and  shot  a  length  ahead,  out  of  her  reach. 
Miss  Deane's  horse,  a  light,  spirited  animal,  kept  pace  with 
his. 

"  Martha ! "  cried  the  disappointed  damsel,  "  Martha  ! 
one  of  us  must  have  it ;  ask  him,  you !  " 

"  No,"  answered  Martha,  with  her  clear  blue  eyes  fixed 
on  Gilbert's  face,  "  I  will  not  ask." 


THE   STORY   OF   KENXETT.  19 

He  returned  her  gaze,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  say: 
4>  Will  you  take  it,  knowing  what  the  acceptance  implies  ?  " 

She  read  the  question  correctly ;  but  of  this  he  was  not 
sure.  Neither,  if  it  were  so,  could  he  trust  himself  to 
interpret  the  answer.  Sally  had  already  resumed  her 
place  on  his  left,  and  he  saw  that  the  mock  strife  would  be 
instantly  renewed.  With  a  movement  so  sudden  as  to 
appear  almost  ungracious,  he  snatched  the  brush  from  his 
cap  and  extended  it  to  Martha  Deane,  without  saying  a 
word. 

If  she  hesitated,  it  was  at  least  no  longer  than  would  be 
required  in  order  to  understand  the  action.  Gilbert  might 
either  so  inteq^ret  it,  or  suspect  that  she  had  understood 
the  condition  in  his  mind,  and  meant  to  signify  the  rejec 
tion  thereof.  The  language  of  gestures  is  wonderfully 
rapid,  and  all  that  could  be  said  by  either,  in  this  way,  was 
over,  and  the  brush  in  Martha  Deane's  hand,  before  Sally 
Fairthorn  became  aware  of  the  transfer. 

*•  Well-done.  Martha ! "  she  exclaimed  :  "  Don't  let  him 
have  it  again !  Do  you  know  to  whom  he  would  have 
given  it :  an  A.  and  a  W.,  with  the  look  of  an  X,  —  so !  " 

Thereupon  Sally  pulled  off  her  mittens  and  crossed  her 
forefingers,  an  action  which  her  companions  understood  — 
in  combination  with  the  mysterious  initials  —  to  be  the 
rude,  primitive  symbol  of  a  squint. 

Gilbert  looked  annoyed,  but  before  he  could  reply,  Sally 
let  go  the  rein  in  order  to  put  on  her  mittens,  and  the 
blinded  mare  quickly  dropping  her  head,  the  rein  slipped 
instantly  to  the  animal's  ears.  The  latter  perceived  her 
advantage,  and  began  snuffing  along  the  edges  of  the  road 
in  a  deliberate  search  for  spring  grass.  In  vain  Sally 
called  and  kicked;  the  mare  provokingly  preserved  her 
independence.  Finally,  a  piteous  appeal  to  Gilbert,  who 
had  pretended  not  to  notice  the  dilemma,  and  was  a  hun 
dred  yards  in  advance,  was  Sally's  only  resource.  The  two 
halted  and  enjoyed  her  comical  helplessness. 


20  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

"  That 's  enough,  Gilbert,"  said  Martha  Deane,  presently, 
"  go  now  and  pick  up  the  rein." 

He  rode  back,  picked  it  up,  and  handed  it  to  Sally  with 
out  speaking. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  demure  change  of 
tone,  as  they  rode  on  to  where  Miss  Deane  was  waiting, 
"come  and  take  supper  with  us,  at  home.  Martha  has 
promised.  You  've  hardly  been  to  see  us  in  a  month." 

"  You  know  how  much  I  have  to  do,  Sally,"  he  answered. 
"  It  is  n't  only  that,  to-day  being  a  Saturday ;  but  I  've 
promised  mother  to  be  at  home  by  dark,  and  fetch  a  quar 
ter  of  tea  from  the  store." 

"  When  you  've  once  promised,  I  know,  oxen  could  n't 
pull  you  the  other  way." 

"  I  don't  often  see  your  mother,  Gilbert,"  said  Martha 
Deane  ;  "  she  is  well  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Martha,  —  too  well,  and  yet  not  well 
enough." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  he  answered,  "  that  she  does  more  than  she 
has  strength  to  do.  If  she  had  Jess  she  would  be  forced 
to  undertake  less  ;  if  she  had  more,  she  would  be  equal  to 
her  undertaking." 

"  I  understand  you  now.  But  you  should  not  allow  her 
to  go  on  in  that  way  ;  you  should  " 

What  Miss  Deane  would  have  said  must  remain  unwrit 
ten.  Gilbert's  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  held  her  own ; 
perhaps  a  little  more  color  came  into  her  face,  but  she  did 
not  show  the  slightest  embarrassment.  A  keen  observer 
might  have  supposed  that  either  a  broken  or  an  imperfect 
relation  existed  between  the  two,  which  the  gentleman  was 
trying1  to  restore  or  complete  without  the  aid  of  words ; 
and  that,  furthermore,  while  the  lady  was  the  more  skilful 
in  the  use  of  that  silent  language,  neither  rightly  under 
stood  the  other. 

By  this  time  they  were  ascending  the  hill  from  Redley 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  21 

Creek  to  Kennett  Square.  Martha  Deane  had  thus  far 
carried  the  brush  carelessly  in  her  right  hand ;  she  now 
rolled  it  into  a  coil  and  thrust  it  into  a  large  velvet  reticule 
which  hung  from  the  pommel  of  her  saddle.  A  few  dull 
orange  streaks  in  the  overcast  sky,  behind  them,  denoted 
sunset,  and  a  raw,  gloomy  twilight  crept  up  from  the  east. 

"  You  '11  not  go  with  us  ?  "  Sally  asked  again,  as  they 
reached  the  corner,  and  the  loungers  on  the  porch  of  the 
Unicorn  Tavern  beyond,  perceiving  Gilbert,  sprang  from 
their  seats  to  ask  for  news  of  the  chase. 

"  Sally,  I  cannot !  "  he  answered.     "  Good-night !  " 

Joe  and  Jake  Fairthorn  rushed  up  with  a  whoop,  and 
before  Gilbert  could  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  tavern- 
idlers,  the  former  sat  behind  Sally,  on  the  old  mare,  with 
his  face  to  her  tail,  while  Jake,  prevented  by  Miss  Deane's 
riding-whip  from  attempting  the  same  performance,  capered 
behind  the  horses  and  kept  up  their  spirits  by  flinging  hand- 
fuls  of  sand. 

Gilbert  found  another  group  in  "  the  store  "  —  farmers 
or  their  sons  who  had  come  in  for  a  supply  of  groceries,  or 
the  weekly  mail,  and  who  sat  in  a  sweltering  atmosphere 
around  the  roaring  stove.  They,  too,  had  heard  of  the 
chase,  and  he  was  obliged  to  give  them  as  many  details  as 
possible  while  his  quarter  of  tea  was  being  weighed,  after 
which  he  left  them  to  supply  the  story  from  the  narrative 
of  Mr.  Joel  Ferris,  who,  a  new-comer  announced,  had  just 
alighted  at  the  Unicorn,  a  little  drunk,  and  in  a  very  bad 
humor. 

"  Where  's  Barton  ? "  Gilbert  heard  some  one  ask  of 
Ferris,  as  he  mounted. 

"  In  his  skin ! "  was  the  answer,  "  unless  he  's  got  into 
that  fellow  Fortune's.  They  're  as  thick  as  two  pickpock 
ets!" 

Gilbert  rode  down  the  hill,  and  allowed  his  horse  to  plod 
leisurely  across  the  muddy  level,  regardless  of  the  deepen 
ing  twilight. 


22  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

He  was  powerfully  moved  by  some  suppressed  emotion 
The  muscles  of  his  lips  twitched  convulsively,  and  there 
was  a  hot  surge  and  swell  somewhere  in  his  head,  as  of 
tears  about  to  overrun  their  secret  reservoir.  But  they 
failed  to  surprise  him,  this  time.  As  the  first  drops  fell 
from  his  dark  eyelashes,  he  loosed  the  rein  and  gave  the 
word  to  his  horse.  Over  the  ridge,  along  the  crest,  between 
dusky  thorn-hedges,  he  swept  at  full  gallop,  and  so,  slowly 
sinking  towards  the  fair  valley  which  began  to  twinkle  with 
the  lights  of  scattered  farms  to  the  eastward,  he  soon 
reached  the  last  steep  descent,  and  saw  the  gray  gleam  of 
his  own  barn  below  him.  , 

By  this  time  his  face  was  sternly  set.  He  clinched  his 
hands,  and  muttered  to  himself — 

"  It  will  almost  kill  me  to  ask,  but  I  must  know,  and  — 
and  she  must  tell." 

It  was  dark  now.  As  he  climbed  again  from  the  bottom 
of  the  hill  towards  the  house,  a  figure  on  the  summit  was 
drawn  indistinctly  against  the  sky,  unconscious  that  it  was 
thus  betrayed.  But  it  vanished  instantly,  and  then  he 
groaned  — 

"  God  help  me  !     I  cannot  ask." 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  23 


CHAPTER  HI. 

MARY   POTTER    AND    HER    SON. 

WHILE  Gilbert  was  dismounting  at  the  gate  leading 
into  his  barn-yard,  he  was  suddenly  accosted  by  a  boyish 
voice  :  — 

"  Got  back,  have  you  ? " 

This  was  Sam,  the  'k  bound-boy," —  the  son  of  a  tenant 
on  the  old  Carson  place,  who,  in  consideration  of  three 
months'  schooling  every  winter,  and  a  "  freedom  suit "  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  if  he  desired  then  to  learn  a  trade, 
was  duly  made  over  by  his  father  to  Gilbert  Potter.  His 
position  was  something  between  that  of  a  poor  relation  and 
a  servant.  He  was  one  of  the  family,  eating  at  the  same 
table,  sleeping,  indeed,  (for  economy  of  house-work,)  in  the 
same  bed  with  his  master,  and  privileged  to  feel  his  full 
share  of  interest  in  domestic  matters ;  but  on  the  other 
hand  bound  to  obedience  and  rigid  service. 

"  Feed 's  in  the  trough,"  said  he,  taking  hold  of  the 
bridle.  «  1 11  fix  him.  Better  go  into  th'  house.  Tea 's 
wanted." 

Feeling  as  sure  that  all  the  necessary  evening's  work 
was  done  as  if  he  had  performed  it  with  his  own  hands, 
Gilbert  silently  followed  the  boy's  familiar  advice. 

The  house,  built  like  most  other  old  farm-houses  in  that 
part  of  the  county,  of  hornblende  stone,  stood  near  the  bot 
tom  of  a  rounded  knoll,  overhanging  the  deep,  winding 
valley.  It  was  two  stories  in  height,  the  gable  looking  to 
wards  the  road,  and  showing,  just  under  the  broad  double 
chimney,  a  limestone  slab,  upon  which  were  rudely  carved 
the  initials  of  the  builder  and  his  wife,  and  the  date 


24  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"1727."  A  low  portico,  overgrown  with  woodbine  and  trum 
pet-flower,  ran  along  the  front.  In  the  narrow  flower-bed, 

under   it,   the  crocuses  and  daffodils  were   beginning  to 

»          & 

thrust  up  their  blunt,  green  points.  A  walk  of  flag-stones 
separated  them  from  the  vegetable  garden,  which  was 
bounded  at  the  bottom  by  a  mill-race,  carrying  half  the 
water  of  the  creek  to  the  saw  and  grist  mill  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road. 

Although  this  road  was  the  principal  thoroughfare  be 
tween  Kennett  Square  and  Wilmington,  the  house  was 
so  screened  from  the  observation  of  travellers,  both  by  the 
barn,  and  by  some  huge,  spreading  apple-trees  which  oc 
cupied  the  space  between  the  garden  and  road,  that  its 
inmates  seemed  to  live  in  absolute  seclusion.  Looking 
from  the  front  door  across  a  narrow  green  meadow,  a 
wooded  hill  completely  shut  out  all  glimpse  of  the  adjoin 
ing  farms ;  while  an  angle  of  the  valley,  to  the  eastward, 
hid  from  sight  the  warm,  fertile  fields  higher  up  the 
stream. 

The  place  seemed  lonelier  than  ever  in  the  gloomy 
March  twilight;  or  was  it  some  other  influence  which 
caused  Gilbert  to  pause  on  the  flagged  walk,  and  stand 
there,  motionless,  looking  down  into  the  meadow  until  a 
woman's  shadow  crossing  the  panes,  was  thrown  upon  the 
square  of  lighted  earth  at  his  feet  ?  Then  he  turned  and 
entered  the  kitchen. 

The  cloth  was  spread  and  the  table  set.  A  kettle,  hum 
ming  on  a  heap  of  fresh  coals,  and  a  squat  little  teapot 
of  blue  china,  were  waiting  anxiously  for  the  brown  paper 
parcel  which  he  placed  upon  the  cloth.  Eis  mother  was 
waiting  also,  in  a  high  straight-backed  rocking-chair,  with 
her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"  You  're  tired  waiting,  mother,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  said,  as 
he  hung  his  hat  upon  a  nail  over  the  heavy  oak  mantel 
piece. 

"  No,  not  tired,  Gilbert,  but  it 's  hungry  you  'II  be.     It 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  25 

won't  take  long  for  the  tea  to  draw.  Everything  else  has 
been  ready  this  half-hour." 

Gilbert  threw  himself  upon  the  settle  under  the  front 
window,  and  mechanically  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  as 
she  carefully  measured  the  precious  herb,  even  stooping 
to  pick  up  a  leaf  or  two  that  had  fallen  from  the  spoon  to 
the  floor. 

The  resemblance  between  mother  and  son  was  very 
striking.  Mary  Potter  had  the  same  square  forehead  and 
level  eyebrows,  but  her  hair  was  darker  than  Gilbert's, 
and  her  eyes  more  deeply  set.  The  fire  of  a  lifelong 
pain  smouldered  in  them,  and  the  throes  of  some  never- 
ending  struggle  had  sharpened  every  line  of  cheek  and 
brow,  and  taught  her  lips  the  close,  hard  compression, 
which  those  of  her  son  were  also  beginning  to  learn.  She 
was  about  fortv-fi  ve  vears  of  ao-e.  but  there  was  even  now 

*/  i.  o     ' 

a  weariness  in  her  motions,  as  if  her  prime  of  strength 
were  already  past.  She  wore  a  short  gown  of  brown  flan 
nel,  with  a  plain  linen  stomacher,  and  a  coarse  apron, 
which  she  removed  when  the  supper  had  been  placed  upon 
the  table.  A  simple  cap,  with  a  narrow  frill,  covered  her 
head. 

The  entire  work  of  the  household  devolved  upon  her 
hands  alone.  Gilbert  would  have  cheerfully  taken  a  ser 
vant  to  assist  her,  but  this  she  positively  refused,  seem 
ing  to  court  constant  labor,  especially  during  his  absence 
from  the  house.  Only  when  he  was  there  would  she  take 
occasion  to  knit  or  sew.  The  kitchen  was  a  marvel  of 
neatness  and  order.  The  bread-trough  and  dresser-shelves 
were  scoured  almost  to  the  whiteness  of  a  napkin,  and  the 
rows  of  pewter-plates  upon  the  latter  flashed  like  silver 
sconces.  To  Gilbert's  eyes,  indeed,  the  effect  was  some 
times  painful.  He  would  have  been  satisfied  with  less 
laborious  order,  a  less  eager  and  unwearied  thrift.  To  be 
sure,  all  this  was  in  furtherance  of  a  mutual  purpose ;  but 
he  mentally  determined  that  when  the  purpose  had  been 


26  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

fulfilled,  he  would  insist  upon  an  easier  and  more  cheerful 
arrangement.  The  stern  aspect  of  life  from  which  his 
nature  craved  escape  met  him  oftenest  at  home. 

Sam  entered  the  kitchen  barefooted,  having  left  his 
shoes  at  the  back  door.  The  tea  was  drawn,  and  the  three 
sat  down  to  their  supper  of  bacon,  bread  and  butter,  and 
apple-sauce.  Gilbert  and  his  mother  ate  and  drank  in 
silence,  but  Sam's  curiosity  was  too  lively  to  be  restrained. 

"  I  say,  how  did  Roger  go  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mary  Potter  looked  up,  as  if  expecting  the  question  to 
be  answered,  and  Gilbert  said :  — 

"  He  took  the  lead,  and  kept  it." 

"  O  cracky ! "  exclaimed  the  delighted  Sam. 

"  Then  you  think  it 's  a  good  bargain,  Gilbert.  Was  it 
a  long  chase  ?  AVas  he  well  tried  ?  " 

"  All  right,  mother.  I  could  sell  him  for  twenty  dollars 
advance  —  even  to  Joel  Ferris,"  he  answered. 

He  then  gave  a  sketch  of  the  afternoon's  adventures,  to 
which  his  mother  listened  with  a  keen,  steady  interest. 
She  compelled  him  to  describe  the  stranger,  Fortune,  as 
minutely  as  possible,  as  if  desirous  of  finding  some  form 
or  event  in  her  own  memory  to  which  he  could  be  at 
tached  ;  but  without  result. 

After  supper  Sam  squatted  upon  a  stool  in  the  corner 
of  the  fireplace,  and  resumed  his  reading  of  u  The  Old 
English  Baron,"  by  the  light  of  the  burning  back-log,  pro 
nouncing  every  word  to  himself  in  something  between  a 
whisper  and  a  whistle.  Gilbert  took  an  account-book,  a 
leaden  inkstand,  and  a  stumpy  pen  from  a  drawer  under 
the  window,  and  calculated  silently  and  somewhat  labori 
ously.  His  mother  produced  a  clocked  stocking  of  blue 
wool,  and  proceeded  to  turn  the  heel. 

In  half  an  hour's  time,  however,  Sam's  whispering  ceased ; 
his  head  nodded  violently,  and  the  book  fell  upon  the 
hearth. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  to  bed,"  he  said  ;  and  having  thus  con- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  27 

scientiously  announced  his  intention,  he  trotted  up  the 
steep  back-stairs  on  his  hands  and  feet.  In  two  minutes 
more,  a  creaking  overhead  announced  that  the  act  was 
accomplished. 

Gilbert  filliped  the  ink  out  of  his  pen  into  the  fire,  laid 
it  in  his  book,  and  turned  away  from  the  table. 

"  Roger  has  bottom,"  he  said  at  last,  "  and  he  's  as  strong 
as  a  lion.  lie  and  Fox  will  make  a  good  team,  and  the 
roads  will  be  solid  in  three  days,  if  it  don't  rain." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean,"  —  she  commenced. 

"  Yes,  mother.  You  were  not  for  buying  him,  I  know, 
and  you  were  right,  inasmuch  as  there  is  always  some  risk. 
But  it  will  make  a  difference  of  two  barrels  a  load,  besides 
having  a  horse  at  home.  If  I  plough  both  for  corn  and 
oats  next  week,  — and  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  corn,  as 
the  field  next  to  Carson's  is  heavy,  —  I  can  begin  hauling 
the  week  after,  and  we  11  have  the  interest  by  the  first  of 
April,  without  borrowing  a  penny." 

"  That  would  be  good,  —  very  good,  indeed,"  said  she, 
dropping  her  knitting,  and  hesitating  a  moment  before  she 
continued  ;  "  only  —  only,  Gilbert,  I  did  n't  expect  you 
would  be  going  so  soon." 

"The  sooner  I  begin,  mother,  the  sooner  I  shall  finish." 

"I  know  that,  Gilbert,  —  I  know  that;  but  I  ?m  always 
looking  forward  to  the  time  when  you  won't  be  bound 
to  go  at  all.  Not  that  Sam  and  I  can't  manage  awhile  — 
but  if  the  money  was  paid  once  "  — 

"  There  's  less  than  six  hundred  now,  altogether.  It 's 
a  good  deal  to  scrape  together  in  a  year's  time,  but  if  it 
can  be  done  I  will  do  it.  Perhaps,  then,  you  will  let  some 
help  come  into  the  house.  I  'm  as  anxious  as  you  can  be, 
mother.  I  'm  not  of  a  roving  disposition,  that  you  know ; 
yet  it  is  n't  pleasant  to  me  to  see  you  slave  as  you  do,  and 
for  that  very  reason,  it 's  a  comfort  when  I  'm  away,  that 
you  've  one  less  to  work  for." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  turning  his  face  full  upon  her. 


28  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  We  Ve  talked  this  over,  often  and  often,  but  you  never 
can  make  me  see  it  in  your  way,"  he  then  added,  in  a 
gentler  tone. 

"  Ay,  Gilbert,"  she  replied,  somewhat  bitterly,  "  I  Ve 
had  my  thoughts.  Maybe  they  were  too  fast ;  it  seems 
so.  I  meant,  and  mean,  to  make  a  good  home  for  you, 
and  I  'm  happiest  when  I  can  do  the  most  towards  it.  I 
want  you  to  hold  up  your  head  and  be  beholden  to  no  man. 
There  are  them  in  the  neighborhood  that  were  bound  out 
as  boys,  and  are  now  as  good  as  the  best." 

"  But  they  are  not,"  —  burst  from  his  lips,  as  the  thought 
on  which  he  so  gloomily  brooded  sprang  to  the  surface  and 
took  him  by  surprise.  He  checked  his  words  by  a  power 
ful  effort,  and  the  blood  forsook  his  face.  Mary  Potter 
placed  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and  seemed  to  gasp  for 
breath. 

Gilbert  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  her  face.  He  turned 
away,  placed  his  elbow  on  the  table,  and  leaned  his  head 
upon  his  hand.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  unfin 
ished  sentence  might  be  otherwise  completed.  He  knew 
that  his  thought  was  betrayed,  and  his  heart  was  suddenly 
filled  with  a  tumult  of  shame,  pity,  and  fear. 

For  a  minute  there  was  silence.  Only  the  long  pendu 
lum,  swinging  openly  along  the  farther  wall,  ticked  at  each 
end  of  its  vibration.  Then  Mary  Potter  drew  a  deep, 
weary  breath,  and  spoke.  Her  voice  was  hollow  and 
strange,  and  each  word  came  as  by  a  separate  muscular 
effort. 

"  What  are  they  not  ?  What  word  was  on  your  tongue, 
Gilbert?" 

He  could  not  answer.  He  could  only  shake  his  head, 
and  bring  forth  a  cowardly,  evasive  word,  —  "  Nothing." 

"  But  there  is  something !  Oh,  I  knew  it  must  come 
some  time ! "  she  cried,  rather  to  herself  than  to  him. 
"Listen  to  me,  Gilbert!  Has  any  one  dared  to  say  to 
your  face  that  you  are  basely  born  ?  " 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  29 

He  felt,  now,  that  no  further  evasion  was  possible  ;  she 
had  put  into  words  the  terrible  question  which  he  could 
not  steel  his  own  heart  to  ask.  Perhaps  it  was  better  so, 

—  better  a  sharp,  intense  pain  than  a  dull  perpetual  ache. 
So  he  answered   honestly  now,   but   still   kept  his   head 
turned  away,  as  if  there  might  be  a  kindness  in  avoiding 
her  gaze. 

"  Not  in  so  many  words,  mother,"  he  said ;  "  but  there 
are  ways,  and  ways  of  saying  a  thing  ;  and  the  cruellest 
way  is  that  which  everybody  understands,  and  I  dare  not 
But  I  have  long  known  what  it  meant.  It  is  ten  years, 
mother,  since  I  have  mentioned  the  word  *  father '  in  your 
hearing." 

Mary  Potter  leaned  forward,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands, 
and  rocked  to  and  fro,  as  if  tortured  with  insupportable 
pain.  She  stifled  her  sobs,  but  the  tears  gushed  forth 
between  her  fingers. 

"  O  my  boy,  —  my  boy  !  "  she  moaned.     "  Ten  years ! 

—  and  you  believed  it,  all  that  time  !  " 

He  was  silent.  She  leaned  forward  and  grasped  his 
arm. 

"  Did  you,  —  do  you  believe  it  ?     Speak,  Gilbert !  " 

"When  he  did  speak,  his  voice  was  singularly  low  and 
gentle.  "  Never  mind,  mother !  "  was  all  he  could  say. 
His  head  was  still  turned  away  from  her,  but  she  knew 
there  were  tears  on  his  cheeks. 

"  Gilbert,  it  is  a  lie !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  startling 
vehemence.  "A  lie,  —  A  LIE!  You  are  my  lawful  son, 
born  in  wedlock !  There  is  no  stain  upon  your  name,  of 
my  giving,  and  I  know  there  will  be  none  of  your  own." 

He  turned  towards  her,  his  eyes  shining  and  his  lips 
parted  in  breathless  joy  and  astonishment 

"  Is  it  —  is  it  true  ?  *  he  whispered. 

"  True  as  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven." 

"Then,  mother,  give  me  my  name!  Now  I  ask  you, 
for  the  first  time,  who  was  my  father  ?  " 


30  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  moaned.  The  sight  of  her 
son's  eager,  expectant  face,  touched  with  a  light  which  she 
had  never  before  seen  upon  it,  seemed  to  give  her  another 
and  a  different  pang. 

«  That,  too  ! "     She  murmured  to  herself. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  then  said,  "  have  I  always  been  a  faithful 
mother  to  you  ?  Have  I  been  true  and  honest  in  word  and 
deed  ?  Have  I  done  my  best  to  help  you  in  all  right  ways, 
—  to  make  you  comfortable,  to  spare  you  trouble  ?  Have 
I  ever,  —  I  '11  not  say  acted,  for  nobody's  judgment  is  per 
fect, —  but  tried  to  act  otherwise  than  as  I  thought  it  might 
be  for  your  good  ?  " 

"You  have  done  all  that  you  could  say,  and  more, 
mother." 

"  Then,  my  -boy,  is  it  too  much  for  me  to  ask  that  you 
should  believe  my  word,  —  that  you  should  let  it  stand  for 
the  truth,  without  my  giving  proofs  and  testimonies?  For, 
Gilbert,  that  I  must  ask  of  you,  hard  as  it  may  seem.  If 
you  will  only  be  content  with  the  knowledge  —  but  then, 
you  have  felt  the  shame  all  this  while ;  it  was  my  fault, 
mine,  and  I  ought  to  ask  your  forgiveness"  — 

"  Mother  —  mother  !  "  he  interrupted,  "  don't  talk  that 
way  !  Yes  —  I  believe  you,  without  testimony.  You  never 
said,  or  thought,  an  untruth ;  and  your  explanation  will 
be  enough  not  only  for  me,  but  for  the  whole  neighbor 
hood,  if  all  witnesses  are  dead  or  gone  away.  If  you  knew 
of  the  shameful  report,  why  did  n't  you  deny  it  at  once  ? 
Why  let  it  spread  and  be  believed  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned  again,  "  if  my  tongue  was  not  tied  — 
if  my  tongue  was  not  tied  !  There  was  my  fault,  and  what 
a  punishment !  Never  —  never  was  woman  punished  as 
I  have  been.  Gilbert,  whatever  you  do,  bind  yourself  by 
no  vow,  except  in  the  sight  of  men  !  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  mother,"  said  he. 

"  No,  and  I  dare  not  make  myself  understood.  Don't 
ask  me  anything  more  !  It 's  hard  to  shut  my  mouth,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  31 

bear  everything  in  silence,  but  it  cuts  my  very  heart  in 
twain  to  speak  and  not  telf!  " 

Her  distress  was  so  evident,  that  Gilbert,  perplexed  and 
bewildered  as  her  words  left  him,  felt  that  he  dared  not 
press  her  further.  He  could  not  doubt  the  truth  of  her 
first  assertion ;  but,  alas !  it  availed  only  for  his  own  pri 
vate  consciousness,  —  it  took  no  stain  from  him,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  Yet,  now  that  the  painful  theme  had  been 
opened,  —  not  less  painful,  it  seemed,  since  the  suspected 
dishonor  did  not  exist,  —  he  craved  and  decided  to  ask, 
enlightenment  on  one  point. 

'•Mother,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  do  not  want  to 
speak  about  this  thing  again.  I  believe  you,  and  my  great 
est  comfort  in  believing  is  for  your  sake,  not  for  mine.  I 
see,  too,  that  you  are  bound  in  some  way  which  I  do  not 
understand,  so  that  we  cannot  be  cleared  from  the  blame 
that  is  put  upon  us.  I  don't  mind  that  so  much,  either  — 
for  my  own  sake,  and  I  will  not  ask  for  an  explanation, 
since  you  say  you  dare  not  give  it.  But  tell  me  one  thing, 
—  will  it  always  b<  so?  Are  you  bound  forever,  and  will 
I  never  learn  anything  more  ?  I  can  wait ;  but,  mother, 
you  know  that  these  things  work  in  a  man's  mind,  and 
there  will  come  a  time  when  the  knowledge  of  the  worst 
thing  that  could  be  will  seem  better  than  no  knowledge 
at  all." 

Her  face  brightened  a  little.  "Thank  you,  Gilbert!" 
she  said.  "  Yes ;  there  will  come  a  day  when  you  shall 
know  all,  • —  when  you  and  me  shall  have  justice.  I  do  not 
know  how  soon  ;  I  cannot  guess.  In  the  Lord's  good 
time.  I  have  nigh  out-suffered  my  fault,  I  think,  and  the 
reward  cannot  be  far  off.  A  few  weeks,  perhaps,  —  yet, 
maybe,  for  oh,  I  am  not  allowed  even  to  hope  for  it !  — 
maybe  a  few  years.  It  will  all  come  to  the  light,  after  so 
long  —  so  long  —  an  eternity.  If  I  had  but  known  !  " 

"  Come,  we  will  say  no  more  now.  Surely  I  may  wait 
a  little  while,  when  you  have  waited  so  long.  I  believe 


32  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

you,  mother.  Yes,  I  believe  you ;  I  am  your  lawful 
son." 

She  rose,  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  kissed 
him.  Nothing  more  was  said. 

Gilbert  raked  the  ashes  over  the  smouldering  embers 
on  the  hearth,  lighted  his  mother's  night-lamp,  and  after 
closing  the  chamber-door  softly  behind  her,  stole  up-stairs 
to  his  own  bed. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  before  he  slept. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  33 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FORTUNE   AND    MISFORTUNE. 

ON  the  same  evening,  a  scene  of  a  very  different  charac 
ter  occurred,  in  which  certain  personages  of  this  history 
were  actors.  In  order  to  describe  it,  we  must  return  to 
the  company  of  sportsmen  whom  Gilbert  Potter  left  at  the 
Hammer-and-Trowel  Tavern,  late  in  the  afternoon. 

No  sooner  had  he  departed  than  the  sneers  of  the  young 
bucks,  who  felt  themselves  humiliated  by  his  unexpected 
success,  became  loud  and  frequent.  Mr.  Alfred  Barton, 
who  seemed  to  care  little  for  the  general  dissatisfaction, 
was  finally  reproached  with  having  introduced  such  an  unfit 
personage  at  a  gentleman's  hunt ;  whereupon  he  turned  im 
patiently,  and  retorted : 

"  There  were  no  particular  invitations  sent  out,  as  all  of 
you  know.  Anybody  that  had  a  horse,  and  knew  how  to 
manage  him,  was  welcome.  Zounds !  if  you  fellows  are 
afraid  to  take  hedges,  am  I  to  blame  for  that  ?  A  hunter 's 
a  hunter,  though  he  's  born  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  mar 
riage  certificate." 

"  That 's  the  talk,  Squire ! "  cried  Fortune,  giving  his 
friend  a  hearty  slap  between  the  shoulders.  "I  've  seen 
riding  in  my  day,"  he  continued,  "  both  down  in  London 
and  on  the  Eastern  Shore  —  men  born  with  spurs  on  their 
heels,  and  I  tell  you  this  Potter  could  hold  his  own,  even 
with  the  Lees  and  the  Tollivers.  We  took  the  hedge  to 
gether,  while  you  were  making  a  round  o^I  don't  know 
how  many  miles  on  the  road ;  and  I  never  saw  a  thing 
neater  done.  If  you  thought  there  was  anything  unfair 
about  him,  why  did  n't  you  head  him  off?  " 
3 


34  THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT. 

"  Yes,  damme,"  echoed  Mr.  Barton,  bringing  down  his  fist 
upon  the  bar,  so  that  the  glasses  jumped,  "  why  did  n't  you 
head  him  off?"  Mr.  Barton's  face  was  suspiciously  flushed, 
and  he  was  more  excited  than  the  occasion  justified. 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  question,  except  that  which 
none  of  the  young  bucks  dared  to  make. 

"  Well,  I  've  had  about  enough  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Joel 
Ferris,  turning  on  his  heel ;  "  who  's  for  home  ?  " 

"  Me  !  "  answered  three  or  four,  with  more  readiness  than 
grammar.  Some  of  the  steadier  young  farmers,  who  had 
come  for  an  afternoon's  recreation,  caring  little  who  was 
first  in  at  the  death,  sat  awhile  and  exchanged  opinions 
about  crops  and  cattle ;  but  Barton  and  Fortune  kept  to 
gether,  whispering  much,  and  occasionally  bursting  into  fits 
of  uproarious  laughter.  The  former  was  so  captivated  by 
his  new  friend,  that  before  he  knew  it  every  guest  was 
gone.  The  landlord  had  lighted  two  or  three  tallow  can 
dles,  and  now  approached  with  the  question: 

"  Will  you  have  supper,  gentlemen  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  've  got,"  said  Fortune. 

This  was  not  language  to  which  the  host  was  accustomed. 
His  guests  were  also  his  fellow-citizens :  if  they  patronized 
him,  he  accommodated  them,  and  the  account  was  bal 
anced.  His  meals  were  as  good  as  anybody's,  though  he 
thought  it  that  should  n't,  and  people  so  very  particular 
might  stay  away.  But  he  was  a  mild,  amiable  man,  and 
Fortune's  keen  eye  and  dazzling  teeth  had  a  powerful 
effect  upon  him.  He  answered  civilly,  in  spite  of  an  in 
ward  protest : 

"  There  "s  ham  and  eggs,  and  frizzled  beef." 

"  Nothing  could  be  better ! "  Fortune  exclaimed,  jump 
ing  up.  "  Come  'Squire  — if  I  stay  over  Sunday  with  you, 
you  must  at  least  take  supper  at  my  expense." 

Mr.  Barton  tried  to  recollect  whether  he  had  invited  his 
friend  to  spend  Sunday  with  him.  It  must  be  so,  of  course  ; 
only,  he  could  not  remember  when  he  had  spoken,  or  what 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  35 

words  he  had  used.  It  would  be  very  pleasant,  he  con 
fessed,  but  for  one  thing ;  and  how  was  he  to  get  over  the 
difficulty  ? 

However,  here  they  were,  at  the  table,  Fortune  heaping 
his  plate  like  a  bountiful  host,  and  talking  so  delightfully 
about  horses  and  hounds,  and  drinking-bouts,  and  all  those 
wild  experiences  which  have  such  a  charm  for  bachelors  of 
forty-five  or  fifty,  that  it  was  impossible  to  determine  in  his 
mind  what  he  should  do. 

After  the  supper,  they  charged  themselves  with  a  few 
additional  potations,  to  keep  oft*  the  chill  of  the  night  air, 
mounted  their  horses,  and  took  the  New-Garden  road.  A 
good  deal  of  confidential  whispering  had  preceded  their 
departure. 

"  They  're  off  on  a  lark,"  the  landlord  remarked  to  him 
self,  as  they  rode  away,  "  and  it 's  a  shame,  in  men  of  their 
age." 

After  riding  a  mile,  they  reached  the  cross-road  on  the 
left,  which  the  hunters  had  followed,  and  Fortune,  who  was 
a  little  in  advance,  turned  into  it. 

"  After  what  I  told  you,  'Squire,"  said  he,  "  you  won't 
wonder  that  I  know  the  country  so  well.  Let  us  push  on  ; 
it 's  not  more  than  two  miles.  I  would  be  very  clear  of 
showing  you  one  of  my  nests,  if  you  were  not  such  a  good 
fellow.  But  mum  's  the  word,  you  know." 

"  Never  fear,"  Barton  answered,  somewhat  thickly  ;  "  I  'm 
an  old  bird,  Fortune." 

"  That  you  are  !  Men  like  you  and  me  are  not  made  of 
the  same  stuff  as  those  young  nincompoops ;  we  can  follow 
a  trail  without  giving  tongue  at  every  jump." 

Highly  flattered,  Barton  rode  nearer,  and  gave  his  friend 
an  affectionate  punch  in  the  side.  Fortune  answered  with 
an  arm  around  his  waist  and  a  tight  hug,  and  so  they  rode 
onward  through  the  darkness. 

They  had  advanced  for  somewhat  more  than  a  mile  on 
the  cross-road,  and  found  themselves  in  a  hollow,  with  tall, 


36  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

dense  woods  on  either  side.  Fortune  drew  rein  and  lis 
tened.  There  was  no  wind  going,  and  the  utmost  stillness 
prevailed  in  every  direction.  There  was  something  awful 
in  the  gloom  and  solitude  of  the  forest,  and  Barton,  in  spite 
of  his  anticipations,  began  to  feel  uncomfortable. 

"  Good,  so  far  !  "  said  Fortune,  at  last.  "  Here  we  leave 
the  road,  and  I  must  strike  a  light." 

"  Won't  it  be  seen  ?  "  Barton  anxiously  inquired. 

"  No  :  it  's  a  dark-lantern  — a  most  convenient  thing.  I 
would  advise  you  to  get  one." 

With  that,  he  fumbled  in  his  holsters  and  produced  a 
small  object,  together  with  a  tinder-box,  and  swiftly  and 
skilfully  struck  a  light.  There  was  a  little  blue  flash,  as  of 
sulphur,  the  snap  of  a  spring,  and  the  gleam  disappeared. 

"  Stay  ! "  he  said,  after  satisfying  himself  that  the  lan 
tern  was  in  order.  "  I  must  know  the  time.  Let  me  have 
your  watch  a  minute." 

Barton  hauled  up  the  heavy  article  from  the  depths  of 
his  fob,  and  handed  it,  with  the  bunch  of  jingling  seals,  to 
his  friend.  The  latter  thrust  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
before  opening  the  lantern,  and  then  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  his  intention,  for  he  turned  the  light  suddenly  on 
Barton's  face. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  in  a  sharp  tone,  "  I  '11  trouble  you, 
'Squire,  for  the  fifty  dollars  young  Ferris  paid  you  before 
the  start,  and  whatever  other  loose  change  you  have  about 
you." 

Barton  was  so  utterly  astounded  that  the  stranger's 
words  conveyed  no  meaning  to  his  ears.  He  sat  with 
fixed  eyes,  open  mouth,  and  hanging  jaws,  and  was  con 
scious  only  that  the  hair  was  slowly  rising  upon  his  head. 

There  was  a  rustling  in  one  of  Fortune's  holsters,  fol 
lowed  by  a  mysterious  double  click.  The  next  moment, 
the  lantern  illumined  a  long,  bright  pistol-barrel,  which 
pointed  towards  the  victim's  breast,  and  caused  him  to  feel 
a  sharp,  wasp-like  sting  on  that  side  of  his  body. 


THE   STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  37 

"  Be  quick,  now !  Hand  over  the  money  !  "  cried  For 
tune,  thrusting  the  pistol  an  inch  nearer. 

With  trembling  hands,  Barton  took  a  pocket-book  and 
purse  of  mole-skin  from  his  breast,  and  silently  obeyed. 
The  robber  put  up  the  pistol,  took  the  ring  of  the  lantern 
in  his  teeth,  and  rapidly  examined  the  money. 

"  A  hundred  and  twenty-five  ! "  he  said,  with  a  grin,  — 
«  not  a  bad  haul." 

"  Fortune  !  "  stammered  Barton,  in  a  piteous  voice,  "  this 
is  a  joke,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  ha !  ha !  —  a  very  good  joke,  —  a  stroke  of  for 
tune  for  you  !  Look  here  !  " 

He  turned  full  upon  his  face  the  lantern  which  he  held 
in  his  left  hand,  while  with  the  right  he  snatched  off  his 
hat,  and  —  as  it  seemed  to  Barton's  eyes  —  the  greater 
part  of  his  head.  But  it  was  only  his  black  hair  and  whis 
kers,  which  vanished  in  the  gloom,  leaving  a  round,  smooth 
face,  and  a  head  of  close-cropped,  red  hair.  With  his 
wicked  eyes  and  shining  teeth,  Barton  imagined  that  he 
beheld  a  devil. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Sandy  Flash  ?  "  said  the  robber. 

The  victim  uttered  a  cry  and  gave  himself  up  for  lost 
This  was  the  redoubtable  highwayman  —  the  terror  of  the 
county  —  who  for  two  years  had  defied  the  law  and  all  its 
ordinary  and  extraordinary  agents,  scouring  the  country  at 
his  will  between  the  Schuylkill  and  the  Susquehanna,  and 
always  striking  his  blows  where  no  one  expected  them  to 
fall.  This  was  he  in  all  his  dreadful  presence,  —  a  match 
for  any  twenty  men,  so  the  story  went,  —  and  he,  Alfred 
Barton,  was  in  his  clutches  !  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  over 
his  whole  body ;  his  face  grew  deadly  pale,  and  his  teeth 
chattered. 

The  highwayman  looked  at  him  and  laughed.  "  Sorry  I 
can't  spend  Sunday  with  you,"  said  he  ;  "  I  must  go  on  to- 
wards  the  Rising  Sun.  When  you  get  another  fox,  send  me 
word."  Then  he  leaned  over,  nearer  the  trembling  victim, 


88  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

and  added  in  a  low,  significant  tone,  "  If  you  stir  from  this 
spot  in  less  than  one  hour,  you  are  a  dead  man." 

Then  he  rode  on,  whistling  "  Money  Musk  "  as  he  went. 
Once  or  twice  he  stopped,  as  if  to  listen,  and  Barton's  heart 
ceased  to  beat ;  but  by  degrees  the  sound  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  died  away.  The  silence  that  succeeded  was  full  of 
terrors.  Barton's  horse  became  restive,  and  he  would  have 
dismounted  and  held  him,  but  for  the  weakness  in  every 
joint  which  made  him  think  that  his  body  was  falling 
asunder.  Now  and  then  a  leaf  rustled,  or  the  scent  of 
some  animal,  unperceived  by  his  own  nostrils,  caused  his 
horse  to  snort  and  stamp.  The  air  was  raw  and  sent  a 
fearful  chill  through  his  blood.  Moreover,  how  was  he  to 
measure  the  hour  ?  His  watch  was  gone  ;  he  might  have 
guessed  by  the  stars,  but  the  sky  was  overcast.  Fortune 
and  Sandy  Flash — for  there  were  two  individuals  in  his 
bewildered  brain  —  would  surely  fulfil  their  threat  if  he 
stirred  before  the  appointed  time.  What  under  heaven 
should  he  do  ? 

Wait ;  that  was  all ;  and  he  waited  until  it  seemed  that 
morning  must  be  near  at  hand.  Then,  turning  his  horse, 
he  rode  back  very  slowly  towards  the  New-Garden  road, 
and  after  many  panics,  to  the  Hammer-and-Trowel.  There 
was  still  light  in  the  bar-room ;  should  the  door  open,  he 
would  be  seen.  He  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  dashed 
past.  Once  in  motion,  it  seemed  that  he  was  pursued,  and 
along  Tuffkenamon  went  the  race,  until  his  horse,  panting 
and  exhausted,  paused  to  drink  at  Redley  Creek.  They 
had  gone  to  bed  at  the  Unicorn ;  he  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  felt  that  the  danger  was  over.  In  five  minutes  more 
he  was  at  home. 

Putting  his  horse  in  the  stable,  he  stole  quietly  to  the 
house,  pulled  off  his  boots  in  the  wood-shed,  and  entered 
by  a  back  way  through  the  kitchen.  Here  he  warmed  his 
chill  frame  before  the  hot  ashes,  and  then  very  gently  and 
cautiously  felt  his  way  to  bed  in  the  dark. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  39 

The  next  morning,  being  Sunday,  the  whole  household, 
servants  and  all,  slept  an  hour  later  than  usual,  as  was  then 
the  country  custom.  Giles,  the  old  soldier,  was  the  first  to 
appear.  He  made  the  fire  in  the  kitchen,  put  on  the  water 
to  boil,  and  then  attended  to  the  feeding  of  the  cattle  at 
the  barn.  When  this  was  accomplished,  he  returned  to 
the  house  and  entered  a  bedroom  adjoining  the  kitchen, 
on  the  ground-floor.  Here  slept  "  Old-man  Barton,"  as  he 
was  generally  called,  —  Alfred's  father,  by  name  Abiah,  and 
now  eighty-five  years  of  age.  For  many  years  he  had 
been  a  paralytic  and  unable  to  walk,  but  the  disease  had 
not  affected  his  business  capacity.  He  was  the  hardest, 
shrewdest,  and  cunningest  miser  in  the  county.  There 
was  not  a  penny  of  the  incqme  and  expenditure  of  the 
farm,  for  any  year,  which  he  could  not  account  for,  —  not  a 
date  of  a  deed,  bond,  or  note  of  hand,  which  he  had  ever 
given  or  received,  that  was  not  indelibly  burnt  upon  his 
memory.  Xo  one,  not  even  his  sons,  knew  precisely  how 
much  he  was  worth.  The  old  lawyer  in  Chester,  who 
had  charge  of  much  of  his  investments,  was  as  shrewd  as 
himself,  and  when  he  made  his  annual  visit,  the  first  week 
in  April,  the  doors  were  not  only  closed,  but  everybody  was 
banished  from  hearing  distance  so  long  as  he  remained. 

Giles  assisted  in  washing  and  dressing  the  old  man,  then 
seated  him  in  a  rude  arm-chair,  resting  on  clumsy  wooden 
castors,  and  poured  out  for  him  a  small  wine-glass  full  of 
raw  brandy.  Once  or  twice  a  year,  usually  after  the  pay 
ment  of  delayed  interest,  Giles  received  a  share  of  the 
brandy ;  but  he  never  learned  to  expect  it.  Then  a  long 
hickory  staff  was  placed  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and  his 
arm-chair  was  rolled  into  the  kitchen,  to  a  certain  station 
between  the  fire  and  the  southern  window-,  where  he  would 
be  out  of  the  way  of  his  daughter  Ann,  yet  could  measure 
with  his  eye  every  bit  of  lard  she  put  into  the  frying-pan, 
and  e\  en  spoonful  of  molasses  that  entered  into  the  com 
position  of  her  pies. 


40  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

She  had  already  set  the  table  for  breakfast.  The  bacon 
and  sliced  potatoes  were  frying  in  separate  pans,  and  Ann 
herself  was  lifting  the  lid  of  the  tin  coffee-pot,  to  see 
whether  the  beverage  had  "come  to  a  boil,"  when  the  old 
man  entered,  or,  strictly  speaking,  was  entered. 

As  his  chair  rolled  into  the  light,  the  hideousness,  not 
the  grace  and  serenity  of  old  age,  was  revealed.  His 
white  hair,  thin  and  half-combed,  straggled  over  the  dark- 
red,  purple-veined  skin  of  his  head  ;  his  cheeks  were  flabby 
bags  of  bristly,  wrinkled  leather ;  his  mouth  was  a  sunken, 
irregular  slit,  losing  itself  in  the  hanging  folds  at  the  cor 
ners,  and  even  the  life,  gathered  into  his  small,  restless  gray 
eyes,  was  half  quenched  under  the  red  and  heavy  edges 
of  the  lids.  The  third  and  fourth  fingers  of  his  hands 
were  crooked  upon  the  skinny  palms,  beyond  any  power  to 
open  them. 

When  Ann  —  a  gaunt  spinster  of  fifty-five  —  had  placed 
the  coffee  on  the  table,  the  old  man  looked  around,  and 
asked  with  a  snarl :  «  Where  's  Alfred  ? " 

"  Not  up  yet,  but  you  need  n't  wait,  father." 

"  Wait  ?  "  was  all  he  said,  yet  she  understood  the  tone, 
and  wheeled  him  to  the  table.  As  soon  as  his  plate  was 
filled,  he  bent  forward  over  it,  rested  his  elbows  on  the 
cloth,  and  commenced  feeding  himself  with  hands  that 
trembled  so  violently  that  he  could  with  great  difficulty 
bring  the  food  to  his  mouth.  But  he  resented  all  offers  of 
assistance,  which  implied  any  weakness  beyond  that  of  the 
infirmity  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  conceal.  His 
meals  were  weary  tasks,  but  he  shook  and  jerked  through 
them,  and  would  have  gone  away  hungry  rather  than 
acknowledge  the  infirmity  of  his  great  age. 

Breakfast  was  nearly  over  before  Alfred  Barton  made 
his  appearance.  No  truant  school-boy  ever  dreaded  the 
master's  eye  as  he  dreaded  to  appear  before  his  father  that 
Sunday  morning.  His  sleep  had  been  broken  and  restless ; 
ihe  teeth  of  Sandy  Flash  had  again  grinned  at  him  in 


TPIE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  41 

Dightmare-clreams,  and  when  he  came  to  put  on  his  clothes, 
the  sense  of  emptiness  in  his  breast-pockei  and  watch-fob 
impressed  him  like  a  violent  physical  pain.  His  loss  was 
bad  enough,  but  the  inability  to  conceal  it  caused  him  even 
greater  distress. 

Buttoning  his  coat  over  the  double  void,  and  trying  to 
assume  his  usual  air,  he  went  down  to  the  kitchen  and  com 
menced  his  breakfast.  Whenever  he  looked  up,  he  found 
his  father's  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and  before  a  word  had 
been  spoken,  he  felt  that  he  had  already  betrayed  some 
thing,  and  that  the  truth  would  follow,  sooner  or  later.  A 
wicked  wish  crossed  his  mind,  but  was  instantly  suppressed, 
for  fear  lest  that,  also,  should  be  discovered. 

After  Ann  had  cleared  the  table,  and  retired  to  her  own 
room  in  order  to  array  herself  in  the  black  cloth  gown 
which  she  had  worn  every  Sunday  for  the  past  fifteen  years, 
the  old  man  said,  or  lather  wheezed  out  the  words,  — • 

"  Kennett,  meetin'  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  said  his  son,  "  I  've  a  sort  of  chill  from 
yesterday."  And  he  folded  his  arms  and  shivered  very 
naturally. 

"  Did  Ferris  pay  you  ?  "  the  old  man  again  asked. 

"  Y-yes." 

"  Where  's  the  money  ?  " 

There  was  the  question,  and  it  must  be  faced.  Alfred 
Barton  worked  the  farm  **  on  shares,"  and  was  held  to  a 
strict  account  by  his  father,  not  only  for  half  of  all  the 
grain  and  produce  sold,  but  of  all  the  horses  and  cattle 
raised,  as  well  as  those  which  were  bought  on  speculation. 
On  his  share  he  managed  —  thanks  to  the  niggardly  sys 
tem  enforced  in  the  house  —  not  only  to  gratify  his  vulgar 
taste  for  display,  but  even  to  lay  aside  small  sums  from 
time  to  time.  Jt  was  a  convenient  arrangement,  but  might 
be  annulled  any  time  when  the  old  man  should  choose,  and 
Alfred  knew  that  a  prompt  division  of  the  profits  would  be 
his  surest  guarantee  of  permanence. 


42  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  I  have  not  the  money  with  me,"  he  answered,  desper 
ately,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  felt  his  father's  gaze 
travelling  over  him,  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Why  not !  You  have  n't  spent  it  ?  "  The  latter  ques 
tion  was  a  croaking  shriek,  which  seemed  to  forebode, 
while  it  scarcely  admitted,  the  possibility  of  such  an  enor 
mity. 

"  I  spent  only  four  shillings,  father,  but  —  but  —  but  the 
money  's  all  gone  !  " 

The  crooked  fingers  clutched  the  hickory  staff,  as  if 
eager  to  wield  it ;  the  sunken  gray  eyes  shot  forth  angry 
fire,  and  the  broken  figure  uncurved  and  straightened 
itself  with  a  wrathful  curiosity. 

"  Sandy  Flash  robbed  me  on  the  way  home,"  said  the 
son,  and  now  that  the  truth  was  out,  he  seemed  to  pluck 
up  a  little  courage. 

"  What,  what,  what ! "  chattered  the  old  man,  incredu 
lously  ;  "  no  lies,  boy,  no  lies  !  " 

The  son  unbuttoned  his  coat,  and  showed  his  empty 
watch-fob.  Then  he  gave  an  account  of  the  robbery,  not 
strictly  correct  in  all  its  details,  but  near  enough  for  his 
father  to  know,  without  discovering  inaccuracies  at  a  later 
day.  The  hickory-stick  was  shaken  once  or  twice  during 
the  recital,  but  it  did  not  fall  upon  the  culprit  —  though 
this  correction  (so  the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood  ran)  had 
more  than  once  been  administered  within  the  previous  ten 
years.  As  Alfred  Barton  told  his  story,  it  was  hardly  a 
case  for  anger  on  the  father's  part,  so  he  took  his  revenge 
in  another  way. 

"This  comes  o'your  races  and  your  expensive  company," 
he  growled,  after  a  few  incoherent  sniffs  and  snarls ;  "  but 
I  don't  lose  my  half  of  the  horse.  No,  no !  I  'm  not  paid 
till  the  money  's  been  handed  over.  Twenty-five  dollars, 
remember  !  —  and  soon,  that  I  don't  lose  the  use  of  it  too 
long.  As  for  your  money  and  the  watch,  I  've  nothing  to 
do  with  them.  I  've  got  along  without  a  watch  for  eighty- 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  43 

five  years,  and  I  never  wore  as  smart  a  coat  as  that  in  my 
born  days.  Young  men  understood  how  to  save,  in  my 
time." 

Secretly,  however,  the  old  man  was  flattered  by  his  son's 
love  of  display,  and  enjoyed  his  swaggering  air,  although 
nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  confess  the  fact.  His 
own  father  had  come  to  Pennsylvania  as  a  servant  of  one 
of  the  first  settlers,  and  the  reverence  which  he  had  felt,  as 
a  boy,  for  the  members  of  the  Quaker  and  farmer  aristoc 
racy  of  the  neighborhood,  had  now  developed  into  a  late 
vanity  to  see  his  own  family  acknowledged  as  the  equals  of 
the  descendants  of  the  former.  Alfred  had  long  since  dis 
covered  that  when  he  happened  to  return  home  from  the 
society  of  the  Falconers,  or  the  Caswells,  or  the  Carsons, 
the  old  man  was  in  an  unusual  good-humor.  At  such 
times,  the  son  felt  sure  that  he  was  put  down  for  a  large 
slice  of  the  inheritance. 

After  turning  the  stick  over  and  over  in  his  skinny  hands, 
and  pressing  the  top  of  it  against  his  toothless  gums,  the 
old  man  again  spoke. 

"  See  here,  you  're  old  enough  now  to  lead  a  steady  life. 
You  might  ha'  had  a  farm  o'  your  own,  like  Elisha,  if  you  'd 
done  as  well.  A  very  fair  bit  o'  money  he  married,  —  very 
fair,  —  but  I  don't  say  you  could  n't  do  as  well,  or,  maybe, 
better." 

"  I  've  been  thinking  of  that,  myself,"  the  son  replied. 

"  Have  you  ?  Why  don't  you  step  up  to  her  then  ?  Ten 
thousand  dollars  are  n't  to  be  had  every  day,  and  you  need 
n't  expect  to  get  it  without  the  askin' !  Where  molasses  is 
dropped,  you  '11  always  find  more  than  one  fly.  Others 
than  you  have  got  their  eyes  on  the  girl." 

The  son's  eyes  opened  tolerably  wide  when  the  old  man 
began  to  speak,  but  a  spark  of  intelligence  presently  flashed 
into  them,  and  an  expression  of  cunning  ran  over  his  face. 

"  Don't  be  anxious,  daddy  !  "  said  he,  with  assumed  play 
fulness;  "she  's  not  a  girl  to  take  the  first  that  offers. 


44  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

She  has  a  mind  of  her  own,  —  with  her  the  more  haste  the 
less  speed.  I  know  what  I  'm  about ;  I  have  my  top  eye 
open,  and  when  there  's  a  good  chance,  you  won't  find  me 
sneaking  behind  the  wood-house." 

"  Well,  well !  "  muttered  the  old  man,  «  we  '11  see,  —we  '11 
see  !  A  good  family,  too,  —  not  that  I  care  for  that.  My 
family  's  as  good  as  the  next.  But  if  you  let  her  slip, 
boy  "  —  and  here  he  brought  down  the  end  of  his  stick 
with  a  significant  whack,  upon  the  floor.  "  This  I  '11  tell 
you,"  he  added,  without  finishing  the  broken  sentence, 
"  that  whether  you  're  a  rich  man  or  a  beggar,  depends  on 
yourself.  The  more  you  have,  the  more  you  '11  get ;  re 
member  that !  Bring  me  my  brandy  !  " 

Alfred  Barton  knew  the  exact  value  of  his  father's  words. 
Having  already  neglected,  or,  at  least,  failed  to  succeed, 
in  regard  to  two  matches  which  his  father  had  proposed, 
he  understood  the  risk  to  his  inheritance  which  was  implied 
by  a  third  failure.  And  yet,  looking  at  the  subject  soberly, 
there  was  not  the  slightest  prospect  of  success.  Martha 
Deane  w?s  the  girl  in  the  old  man's  mind,  and  an  instinct, 
stronger  than  his  vanity,  told  him  that  she  never  would,  or 
could,  be  his  wife.  But,  in  spite  of  that,  it  must  be  his 
business  to  create  a  contrary  impression,  and  keep  it  alive 
as  long  as  possible,  • — perhaps  until  — until  — 

We  all  know  what  was  in  his  mind.  Until  the  old  man 
should  die. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  45 


CHAPTER  V. 

GUESTS  AT  FAIRTIIORN'S. 

THE  Fairthorn  farm  was  immediately  north  of  Kennett 
Square.  For  the  first  mile  towards  Union ville,  the  rich, 
rolling  fields  which  any  traveller  may  see,  to  this  day,  on 
either  side  of  the  road,  belonged  to  it  The  house  stood 
on  the  right,  in  the  hollow  into  which  the  road  dips,  on 
leaving  the  village.  Originally  a  large  cabin  of  hewn  logs, 
it  now  rejoiced  in  a  stately  stone  addition,  overgrown 
with  ivy  up  to  the  eaves,  and  a  long  porch  in  front,  below 
which  two  mounds  of  box  guarded  the  flight  of  stone  steps 
leading  down  to  the  garden.  The  hill  in  the  rear  kept  off 
the  north  wind,  and  this  garden  caught  the  earliest  warmth 
of  spring.  Nowhere  else  in  the  neighborhood  did  the 
crocuses  bloom  so  early,  or  the  peas  so  soon  appear  above 
ground.  The  lack  of  order,  the  air  of  old  neglect  about 
the  place,  in  nowise  detracted  from  its  warm,  cosy  charac 
ter;  it  was  a  pleasant  nook,  and  the  relatives  arid  friends 
of  the  family  (whose  name  was  Legion)  always  liked  to 
visit  there. 

Several  days  had  elapsed  since  the  chase,  and  the  event 
ful  evening  which  followed  it.  It  was  baking-day,  and  the 
plump  arms  of  Sally  Fairthorn  were  floury-white  up  to 
the  elbows.  She  was  leaning  over  the  dough  -  trough, 
plunging  her  fists  furiously  into  the  spongy  mass,  when  she 
heard  a  step  on  the  porch.  Although  her  gown  was  pinned 
up,  leaving  half  of  her  short,  striped  petticoat  visible,  and 
a  blue  and  white  spotted  handkerchief  concealed  her  dark 
hair,  Sally  did  not  stop  to  think  of  that.  She  rushed  into 


4.6  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

the  front  room,  just  as  a  gaunt  female  figure  passed  the 
window,  at  the  sight  of  which  she  clapped  her  hands  so 
that  the  flour  flew  in  a  little  white  cloud,  and  two  or  three 
strips  of  dough  peeled  off  her  arms  and  fell  upon  the 
floor. 

The  front-door  opened,  and  our  old  friend,  Miss  Betsy 
Lavender,  walked  into  the  room. 

Any  person,  between  Kildeer  Hill  and  Hockessin,  who 
did  not  know  Miss  Betsy,  must  have  been  an  utter  stranger 
to  the  country,  or  an  idiot.  She  had  a  marvellous  clairvoy 
ant  faculty  for  the  approach  of  either  Joy  or  Grief,  and 
always  turned  up  just  at  the  moment  when  she  was  most 
wanted.  Profession  had  she  none  ;  neither  a  permanent 
home,  but  for  twenty  years  she  had  wandered  hither  and 
thither,  in  highly  independent  fashion,  turning  her  hand 
to  whatever  seemed  to  require  its  cunning.  A  better  house 
keeper  never  might  have  lived,  if  she  could  have  stuck  to 
one  spot ;  an  admirable  cook,  nurse,  seamstress,  and  spin 
ner,  she  refused  alike  the  high  wages  of  wealthy  farmers 
and  the  hands  of  poor  widowers.  She  had  a  little  money 
of  her  own,  but  never  refused  payment  from  those  who 
were  able  to  give  it,  in  order  that  she  might  now  and  then 
make  a  present  of  her  services  to  poorer  friends.  Her 
speech  was  blunt  and  rough,  her  ways  odd  and  eccentric; 
her  name  was  rarely  mentioned  without  a  laugh,  but  those 
who  laughed  at  her  esteemed  her  none  the  less.  In  those 
days  of  weekly  posts  and  one  newspaper,  she  was  Politics, 
Art,  Science,  and  Literature  to  many  families. 

In  person,  Miss  Betsy  Lavender  was  peculiar  rather 
than  attractive.  She  was  nearly,  if  not  quite  fifty  years 
of  age,  rather  tall,  and  a  little  stoop-shouldered.  Her  face, 
at  first  sight,  suggested  that  of  a  horse,  with  its  long,  ridged 
nose,  loose  lips  and  short  chin.  Her  eyes  were  dull  gray, 
set  near  together,  and  much  sharper  in  their  operation  than 
a  stranger  would  suppose.  Over  a  high,  narrow  forehead 
she  wore  thin  bands  of  tan-colored  hair,  somewhat  grizzled, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  47 

and  forming  a  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  barely  strong 
enouo-h  to  hold  the   teeth  of  an  enormous   tortoise-shell 

o 

comb.     Yet  her  grotesqueness  had  nothing  repellant ;  it 
was  a  genial  caricature,  at  which  no  one  could  take  offence. 

"  The  very  person  I  wanted  to  see ! "  cried  Sally. 
"  Father  and  mother  are  going  up  to  Uncle  John's  this 
afternoon ;  Aunt  Eliza  has  an  old  woman's  quilting-party, 
and  they  '11  stay  all  night,  and  however  am  I  to  manage 
Joe  and  Jake  by  myself?  Martha 's  half  promised  to 
come,  but  not  till  after  supper.  It  will  all  go  right,  .since 
you  are  here  ;  come  into  mother's  room  and  take  off  your 
things !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Betsy,  with  a  snort,  "  that's  to  be  my 
business,  eh  ?  I  '11  have  my  hands  full ;  a  pearter  couple 
o'  lads  a'n't  to  be  found  this  side  o'  Nottin'gam.  They 
might  ha'  growed  up  wild  on  the  Barrens,  for  all  the  man 
ners  they  've  got." 

Sally  knew  that  this  criticism  was  true  ;  also  that  Miss 
Betsy's  task  was  no  sinecure,  and  she  therefore  thought 
it  best  to  change  the  subject. 

"There!"  said  she,  as  Miss  Betsy  gave  the  thin\ope 
of  her  back  hair  a  fierce  twist,  and  jammed  her  high  comb 
inward  and  outward  that  the  teeth  might  catch,  — "  there ! 
now  you  '11  do  !  Come  into  the  kitchen  and  tell  me  the 
news,  while  I  set  my  loaves  to  rise." 

"  Loaves  to  rise,"  echoed  Miss  Betsy,  seating  herself  on 
a  tall,  rush-bottomed  chair  near  the  window.  She  had  an 
incorrigible  habit  of  repeating  the  last  three  words  of  the 
person  with  whom  she  spoke,  —  a  habit  which  was  some 
times  mimicked  good-humoredly,  even  by  her  best  friends. 
Many  persons,  however,  were  flattered  by  it,  as  it  seemed 
to  denote  an  earnest  attention  to  wrhat  they  were  saying. 
Between  the  two,  there  it  was  and  there  it  would  be,  to 
•the  day  of  her  death,  —  Miss  Lavender's  "  keel  ^mark," 
as  the  farmers  said  of  their  sheep. 

1  Keel,  a  local  term  for  red  chalk. 


43  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"Well,"  she  resumed,  after  taking  breath,  "no  news  is 
good  news,  these  days.  Down  Whitely  Creek  way,  to 
wards  Strickersville,  there  's  fever,  they  say ;  Richard  Rudd 
talks  o' bulletin'  higher  up  the  hill,  —  you  know  it 's  low 
and  swampy  about  the  old  house,  —  but  Sarah,  she  says 
it  '11  be  a  mortal  long  ways  to  the  spring-house,  and  so 
betwixt  and  between  them  I  dunno  how  it  '11  turn  out. 
Dear  me  !  I  was  up  at  Aunt  Buffin'ton's  t'  other  day  ;  she 's 
lookin'  poorly;  her  mother,  I  remember,  went  off  in  a 
decline,  the  same  year  the  Tories  burnt  down  their  barn, 
and  I  'm  afeard  she  's  goin'  the  same  way.  But,  yes !  I 
guess  there  's  one  thing  you  '11  like  to  hear.  Old-man  Bar 
ton  is  goin'  to  put  up  a  new  wagon-house,  and  Mark  is  to 
have  the  job." 

"  Law  !  "  exclaimed  Sally,  "  what 's  that  to  me  ?  "  But 
there  was  a  decided  smile  on  her  face  as  she  put  another 
loaf  into  the  pan,  and,  although  her  head  was  turned  away, 
a  pretty  flush  of  color  came  up  behind  her  ear,  and  be 
trayed  itself  to  Miss  Lavender's  quick  eye. 

"  Nothin'  much,  I  reckon,"  the  latter  answered,  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  way,  "only  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
know  it,  Mark  bein'  a  neighbor,  like,  and  a  right-down 
smart  young  fellow." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Sally,  with  sudden  candor, 
"  he  's  Martha's  cousin." 

"  Martha's  cousin,  —  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  'd  be 
something  more  to  her,  some  day." 

"  No,  indeed  !  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Betsy  ?  " 
Sally  turned  around  and  faced  her  visitor,  regardless  that 
her  soft  brunette  face  showed  a  decided  tinge  of  scarlet 
At  this  instant  clattering  feet  were  heard,  and  Joe  and 
Jake  rushed  into  the  kitchen.  They  greeted  their  old 
friend  with  boisterous  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"  Now  we  '11  have  dough-nuts,"  cried  Joe. 

"  No  ;  'lasses-wax ! "  said  Jake.  "  Sally,  where 's  mother? 
Dad  's  out  at  the  wall,  and  Bonnie  's  jumpin'  and  prancin* 
like  anything ! " 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  49 

"  Go  along ! "  exclaimed  Sally,  with  a  slap  which  lost  its 
force  in  the  air,  as  Jake  jumped  away.  Then  they  all  left 
the  kitchen  together,  and  escorted  the  mother  to  the  gar 
den-wall  by  the  road,  which  served  the  purpose  of  a  horse 
block.  Farmer  Fairthorn  —  a  hale,  ruddy,  honest  figure,  in 
broad-brimmed  hat  brown  coat  and  knee-breeches  —  al 
ready  sat  upon  the  old  mare,  and  the  pillion  behind  his 
saddle  awaited  the  coming  burden.  Mother  Fairthorn,  a 
cheery  little  woman,  with  dark  eyes  and  round  brunette  face, 
like  her  daughter,  wore  the  scoop  bonnet  and  drab  shawl 
of  a  Quakeress,  as  did  many  in  the  neighborhood  who  did 
not  belong  to  the  sect  Never  were  people  better  suited 
to  each  other  than  these  two :  they  took  the  world  as  they 
found  it  and  whether  the  crops  were  poor  or  abundant, 
whether  money  came  in  or  had  to  be  borrowed,  whether 
the  roof  leaked,  or  a  broken  pale  let  the  sheep  into  the 
garden,  they  were  alike  easy  of  heart,  contented  and 
cheerful. 

The  mare,  after  various  obstinate  whirls,  was  finally 
brought  near  the  wall ;  the  old  woman  took  her  seat  on 
the  pillion,  and  after  a  parting  admonition  to  Sally :  "  Hake 
the  coals  and  cover  'em  up,  before  going  to  bed,  whatever 
you  do  !"  —  they  went  off,  deliberately,  up  the  hill. 

"  Miss  Betsy,"  said  Joe,  with  a  very  grave  air,  as  they 
returned  to  the  kitchen,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  one  thing, 
—  whether  it 's  true  or  not  Sally  says  I  fm  a  monkey." 

"  I  'm  a  monkey,"  repeated  the  unconscious  Miss  Laven 
der,  whereupon  both  boys  burst  into  shrieks  of  laughter, 
and  made  their  escape. 

"  Much  dough-nuts  they  '11  get  from  me,"  muttered  the 
ruffled  spinster,  as  she  pinned  up  •  her  sleeves  and  pro 
ceeded  to  help  Sally.  The  work  went  on  rapidly,  and  by  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  kitchen  wore  its  normal  aspect 
of  homely  neatness.  Then  came  the  hour  or  two  of  quiet 
and  rest,  nowhere  in  the  world  so  grateful  as  in  a  country 
farm-house,  to  its  mistress  and  her  daughters,  when  all  the 
4 


50  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

rough  work  of  the  day  is  over,  and  only  the  lighter  task  of 
preparing  supper  yet  remains.  Then,  when  the  sewing 
or  knitting  has  been  produced,  the  little  painted-pine  work- 
stand  placed  near  the  window,  and  a  pleasant  neighbor 
drops  in  to  enliven  the  softer  occupation  with  gossip,  the 
country  wife  or  girl  finds  her  life  a  very  happy  and  cheer 
ful  possession.  No  dresses  are  worn  with  so  much  pleas 
ure  as  those  then  made ;  no  books  so  enjoyed  as  those  then 
read,  a  chapter  or  two  at  a  time. 

Sally  Fairthorn,  we  must  confess,  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  reading  much.  Her  education  had  been  limited.  She 
had  ciphered  as  far  as  Compound  Interest,  read  Murray's 
"  Sequel,"  and  Goldsmith's  "  Rome,"  and  could  write  a  fair 
letter,  without  misspelling  many  words  ;  but  very  few  other 
girls  in  the  neighborhood  possessed  greater  accomplish 
ments  than  these,  and  none  of  them  felt,  or  even  thought 
of,  their  deficiencies.  There  were  no  "  missions  "  in  those 
days  ;  it  was  fifty  or  sixty  years  before  the  formation  of 
the  "  Kennett  Psychological  Society,"  and  "  Pamela," 
"  Rasselas,"  and  "  Joseph  Andrews,1'  were  lent  and  bor 
rowed,  as  at  present  "  Consuelo,"  Buckle,  Ruskin,  and 
"  Enoch  Arden." 

One  single  work  of  art  had  Sally  created,  and  it  now 
hung,  stately  in  a  frame  of  curled  maple,  in  the  chilly 
parlor.  It  was  a  sampler,  containing  the  alphabet,  both 
large  and  small,  the  names  and  dates  of  birth  of  both  her 
parents,  a  harp  and  willow-tree,  the  twigs  whereof  were 
represented  by  parallel  rows  of  "  herring-bone "  stitch,  a 
sharp  zigzag  spray  of  rose-buds,  and  the  following  stanza, 
placed  directly  underneath  the  harp  and  willow :  — 

"  By  Babel's  streams  we  Sat  and  Wept 

When  Zion  we  thought  on: 
For  Grief  thereof,  we  Hang  our  Harp 
The  Willow  Tree  upon." 
\ 

Across  the  bottom  of  the  sampler  was  embroidered  the  in 
scription  :  "  Done  by  Sarah  Ann  Fairthorn,  May,  1792,  in 
the  16th  year  of  her  age." 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  51 

While  Sally  went  up-stairs  to  her  room,  to  put  her  hair 
into  order,  and  tie  a  finer  apron  over  her  cloth  gown,  Miss 
Betsy  Lavender  was  made  the  victim  of  a  most  painful 
experience. 

Joe  and  Jake,  who  had  been  dodging  around  the  house, 
half-coaxing  and  half-teasing  the  ancient  maiden  whom 
they  both  plagued  and  liked,  had  not  been  heard  or  seen 
for  a  while.  Miss  Betsy  was  knitting  by  the  front  window, 
waiting  for  Sally,  when  the  door  was  hastily  thrown  open, 
and  Joe  appeared,  panting,  scared,  and  with  an  expression 
of  horror  upon  his  face. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Betsy ! "  was  his  breathless  exclamation, 
"  Jake  !  the  cherry-tree  !  " 

Dropping  her  work  upon  the  floor,  Miss  Lavender  hur 
ried  out  of  the  house,  with  beatino-  heart  and  trembling 

O  O 

limbs,  following  Joe,  who  ran  towards  the  field  above  the 
barn,  where,  near  the  fence,  there  stood  a  large  and  lofty 
cherry-tree.  As  she  reached  the  fence  she  beheld  Jake, 
lying  motionless  on  his  back,  on  the  brown  grass. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy ! "  she  cried ;  her  knees  gave 
way,  and  she  sank  upon  the  ground  in  an  angular  heap. 
When,  with  a  desperate  groan,  she  lifted  her  head  and 
looked  through  the  lower  rails,  Jake  was  not  to  be  seen. 
With  a  swift,  convulsive  effort  she  rose  to  her  feet,  just  in 
time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  two  young  scamps  whirling 
over  the  farther  fence  into  the  wood  below. 

She  walked  unsteadily  back  to  the  house.  "  It 's  given 
me  such  a  turn,"  she  said  to  Sally,  after  describing  the 
trick,  "  that  I  dunno  when  I  '11  get  over  it." 

Sally  gave  her  some  whiskey  and  sugar,  which  soon 
brought  a  vivid  red  to  the  tip  of  her  chin  and  the  region 
of  her  cheek-bones,  after  which  she  professed  that  she  felt 
very  comfortable.  But  the  boys,  frightened  at  the  effect 
of  their  thoughtless  prank,  did  not  make  their  appearance. 
Joe,  seeing  Miss  Betsy  fall,  thought  she  was  dead,  and  the 
two  lu'd  themselves  in  a  bed  of  dead  leaves,  beside  a  fallen 


52  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

log,  not  daring  to  venture  home  for  supper.  Sally  said 
they  should  have  none,  and  would  have  cleared  the  table  ; 
but  Miss  Betsy,  whose  kind  heart  had  long  since  relented, 
went  forth  and  brought  them  to  light,  promising  that  she 
would  not  tell  their  father,  provided  they  "  would  never  do 
such  a  wicked  thing  again."  Their  behavior,  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening,  was  irreproachable. 

Just  as  candles  were  being  lighted,  there  was  another 
step  on  the  porch,  and  the  door  opened  on  Martha  Deane. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  !  "  cried  Sally.  "  Never  mind  your  pat 
tens,  Martha ;  Joe  shall  carry  them  into  the  kitchen. 
Come,  let  me  take  off  your  cloak  and  hat." 

Martha's  coming  seemed  to  restore  the  fading  daylight. 
Not  boisterous  or  impulsive,  like  Sally,  her  nature  burned 
with  a  bright  and  steady  flame,  —  white  and  cold  to  some, 
golden  and  radiant  to  others.  Her  form  was  slender,  and 
every  motion  expressed  a  calm,  serene  grace,  which  could 
only  spring  from  some  conscious  strength  of  character. 
Her  face  was  remarkably  symmetrical,  its  oval  outline  ap 
proaching  the  Greek  ideal ;  but  the  brow  was  rather  high 
than  low,  and  the  light  brown  hair  covered  the  fair  temples 
evenly,  without  a  ripple.  Her  eyes  were  purely  blue,  and 
a  quick,  soft  spark  was  easily  kindled  in  their  depths ;  the 
cheeks  round  and  rosy,  and  the  mouth  clearly  and  deli 
cately  cut,  with  an  unusual,  yet  wholly  feminine  firmness 
in  the  lines  of  the  upper  lip.  This  peculiarity,  again,  if 
slightly  out  of  harmony  with  the  pervading  gentleness  of  her 
face,  was  balanced  by  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  her 
dimpled  chin,  and  gave  to  her  face  a  rare  union  of  strength 
and  tenderness.  It  very  rarely  happens  that  decision  and 
power  of  will  in  a  young  woman  are  not  manifested  by 
some  characteristic  rather  masculine  than  feminine  ;  but 
Martha  Deane  knew  the  art  of  unwearied,  soft  assertion 
and  resistance,  and  her  beautiful  lips  could  pronounce, 
when  necessary,  a  final  word. 

Joe  and  Jake  came  forward  with  a  half-shy  delight,  to 


THE  STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  53 

welcome  "  Cousin  Martha,"  as  she  was  called  in  the  Fair- 
thorn  household,  her  mother  and  Sally's  father  having 
been  "  own  "  cousins.  There  was  a  cheerful  fire  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  three  ladies  gathered  in  front  of  it,  with 
the  work-stand  in  the  middle,  while  the  boys  took  posses 
sion  of  the  corner-nooks.  The  latter  claimed  their  share 
of  the  gossip ;  they  knew  the  family  histories  of  the  neigh 
borhood  much  better  than  their  school-books,  and  exhib 
ited  a  precocious  interest  in  this  form  of  knowledge.  The 
conversation,  therefore,  was  somewhat  guarded,  and  the 
knitting  and  sewing  all  the  more  assiduously  performed, 
until,  with  great  reluctance,  and  after  repeated  commands, 
Joe  and  Jake  stole  off  to  bed. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  then  became  infinitely 
more  free  and  confidential.  Sally  dropped  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  and  settled  herself  more  comfortably  in  her  chair, 
while  Miss  Lavender,  with  an  unobserved  side-glance  at 
her,  said  :  — 

u  Mark  is  to  put  up  Barton's  new  wagon-house,  I  hear, 
Martha." 

"  Yes,"  Martha  answered ;  "  it  is  not  much,  but  Mark, 
of  course,  is  very  proud  of  his  first  job.  There  is  a  better 
one  in  store,  though  he  does  not  know  of  it." 

Sally  pricked  up  her  ears.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Betsy. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  mentioned,  you  will  understand.  I  saw 
Alfred  Barton  to-day.  He  seems  to  take  quite  an  interest 
in  Mark,  all  at  once,  and  he  told  me  that  the  Hallowells 
are  going  to  build  a  new  barn  this  summer.  He  spoke  to 
them  of  Mark,  and  thinks  the  work  is  almost  sure." 

"  Well,  now !  "  Miss  Betsy  exclaimed,  "  if  he  gets  that, 
after  a  year's  journey-work,  Mark  is  a  made  man.  And 
I  '11  speak  to  Richard  Rudd  the  next  time  I  see  him.  He 
thinks  he  's  beholden  to  me,  since  Sarah  had  the  fever  so 
bad.  I  don't  like  folks  to  think  that,  but  there  's  times 
when  it  appears  to  come  handy." 


54  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Sally  arose,  flushed  and  silent,  and  brought  a  plate  of 
cakes  and  a  basket  of  apples  from  the  pantry.  The  work 
was  now  wholly  laid  aside,  and  the  stand  cleared  to  receive 
the  refreshments. 

"  Now  pare  your  peels  in  one  piece,  girls,"  Miss  Betsy 
advised,  "  and  then  whirl  'em  to  find  the  itials  o'  your 
sweethearts'  names." 

"  You,  too,  Miss  Betsy ! "  cried  Sally,  «  we  must  find  out 
the  widower's  name  ! " 

"  The  widower's  name,"  Miss  Betsy  gravely  repeated,  as 
she  took  a  knife. 

With  much  mirth  the  parings  were  cut,  slowly  whirled 
three  times  around  the  head,  and  then  let  fly  over  the  left 
shoulder.  Miss  Betsy's  was  first  examined  and  pronounced 
to  be  an  A. 

"Who's  A?  "she  asked. 

"  Alfred !  "  said  Sally.  "  Now,  Martha,  here  's  yours  — 
an  S,  no  it 's  a  G  !  " 

"  The  curl  is  the  wrong  way,"  said  Martha,  gravely,  "  it 's 
a  figure  3  ;  so,  I  have  three  of  them,  have  I  ?  " 

"  And  mine,"  Sally  continued,  "  is  a  AY  !  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  look  at  it  upside  down.  The  inside  of  the 
peel  is  uppermost :  you  must  turn  it,  arid  then  it  will  be  an 
M." 

Sally  snatched  it  up  in  affected  vexation,  and  threw  it 
into  the  fire.  "  Oh,  I  know  a  new  way  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  did 
you  ever  try  it,  Martha  —  with  the  key  and  the  Bible  ! " 

"  Old  as  the  hills,  but  awful  sure,"  remarked  Miss  Lav 
ender.  "  When  it  's  done  serious,  it 's  never  been  known 
to  fail." 

Sally  took  the  house-key,  and  brought  from  the  old  wal 
nut  cabinet  a  plump  octavo  Bible,  which  she  opened  at  the 
Song  of  Solomon,  eighth  chapter  and  sixth  verse.  The 
end  of  the  key  being  carefully  placed  therein,  the  halves 
of  the  book  were  bound  together  with  cords,  so  that  it 
could  be  carried  by  the  key-handle.  Then  Sally  and  Mar- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  55 

tha,  sitting  face  to  face,  placed  each  the  end  of  the  fore 
finger  of  the  right  hand  under  the  half  the  ring  of  the  key 
nearest  to  her. 

'•  Now,  Martha,"  said  Sally,  "  we  '11  try  your  fortune  first. 
Say  '  A,'  and  then  repeat  the  verse  :  '  set  me  as  a  seal  upon 
thy  heart,  as  a  seal  upon  thine  arm ;  for  love  is  strong  as 
death,  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave :  the  coals  thereof  are 
coals  of  fire,  which  hath  a  most  vehement  flame.'  " 

Martha  did  as  she  was  bidden,  but  the  book  hung  mo 
tionless.  She  was  thereupon  directed  to  say  B,  and  repeat 
the  verse  ;  and  so  on,  letter  by  letter.  The  slender  fingers 
trembled  a  little  with  the  growing  weight  of  the  book,  and, 
although  Sally  protested  that  she  was  holding  as  still  "  as 
she  knew  how,"  the  trembling  increased,  and  before  the 
verse  which  followed  G  had  been  finished,  the  ring  6f  the 
key  slowly  turned,  and  the  volume  fell  to  the  floor. 

Martha  picked  it  up  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  who  was  in  your  mind.  Sally,"  she  said. 
"  Now  let  me  tell  your  fortune :  we  will  begin  at  L  —  it 
will  save  time." 

"  Save  time,"  said  Miss  Lavender,  rising.  "  Have  it  out 
betwixt  and  between  you,  girls  :  I  'm  a-goin'  to  bed." 

The  two  girls  soon  followed  her  example.  Hastily 
undressing  themselves  in  the  chilly  room,  they  lay  down 
side  by  side,  to  enjoy  the  blended  warmth  and  rest,  and 
the  tender,  delicious  interchanges  of  confidence  which  pre 
cede  sleep.  Though  so  different  in  every  fibre  of  their 
natures,  they  loved  each  other  with  a  very  true  and  tender 
affection. 

"  Martha,"  said  Sally,  after  an  interval  of  silence,  "  did 
you  think  I  made  the  Bible  turn  at  G  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  thought  it  would  turn,  and  therefore  it  did. 
Gilbert  Potter  was  in  your  mind,  of  course." 

"  And  not  in  yours,  Martha  ?  " 

"If  any  man  was  seriously  in  my  mind,  Sally,  do  you 
think  I  would  take  the  Bible  and  the  door-key  in  order  to 
find  out  his  name  ?  " 


56  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

Sally  was  not  adroit  in  speech  :  she  felt  that  her  question 
had  not  been  answered,  but  was  unable  to  see  precisely 
how  the  answer  had  been  evaded. 

"  I  certainly  was  beginning  to  think  that  you  liked  Gil 
bert,"  she  said. 

"  So  I  do.  Anybody  may  know  that  who  cares  for  the 
information."  And  Martha  laughed  cheerfully. 

"Would  you  say  so  to  Gilbert  himself?"  Sally  timidly 
suggested. 

"  Certainly ;  but  why  should  he  ask  ?  I  like  a  great 
many  young  men." 

«  Oh,  Martha  ! " 

"  Oh,  Sally  !  —  and  so  do  you.  But  there  's  this  I  will 
say :  if  I  were  to  love  a  man,  neither  he  nor  any  other  liv 
ing  soul  should  know  it,  until  he  had  told  me  with  his  own 
lips  that  his  heart  had  chosen  me." 

The  strength  of  conviction  in  Martha's  grave,  gentle 
voice,  struck  Sally  dumb.  Her  lips  were  sealed  on  the 
delicious  secret  she  was  longing,  and  yet  afraid,  to  disclose. 
He  had  not  spoken  :  she  hoped  he  loved  her,  she  was  sure 
she  loved  him.  Did  she  speak  now,  she  thought,  she  would 
lower  herself  in  Martha's  eyes.  With  a  helpless  impulse, 
she  threw  one  arm  over  the  latter's  neck,  and  kissed  her 
cheek.  She  did  not  know  that  with  the  kiss  she  had  left  a 
tear. 

"  Sally,"  said  Martha,  in  a  tender  whisper,  "  I  only  spoke 
for  myself.  Some  hearts  must  be  silent,  while  it  is  the 
nature  of  others  to  speak  out.  You  are  not  afraid  of  me  : 
it  will  be  womanly  in  you  to  tell  me  everything.  Your 
cheek  is  hot :  you  are  blushing.  Don't  blush,  Sally  dear, 
for  I  know  it  already." 

Sally  answered  with  an  impassioned  demonstration  of 
gratitude  and  affection.  Then  she  spoke  ;  but  we  will  not 
reveal  the  secrets  of  her  virgin  heart.  It  is  enough  that, 
soothed  and  comforted  by  Martha's  wise  counsel  and  sym 
pathy,  she  sank  into  happy  slumber  at  her  side. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  57 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE    NEW    GILBERT. 

Tins  time  the  weather,  which  so  often  thwarts  the  far 
mer's  calculations,  favored  Gilbert  Potter.  In  a  week 
the  two  fields  were  ploughed,  and  what  little  farm-work 
remained  to  be  done  before  the  first  of  April,  could  be 
safely  left  to  Sam.  On  the  second  Monday  after  the  chase, 
therefore,  he  harnessed  his  four  sturdy  horses  to  the  wagon, 
and  set  off  before  the  first  streak  of  dawn  for  Columbia, 
on  the  Susquehanna.  Here  he  would  take  from  twelve  to 
sixteen  barrels  of  flour  (according  to  the  state  of  the 
roads)  and  haul  them,  a  two  days'  journey,  to  Newport,  on 
the  Christiana  River.  The  freight  of  a  dollar  and  a  half  a 
barrel,  which  he  received,  yielded  him  what  in  those  days 
was  considered  a  handsome  profit  for  the  service,  and  it 
was  no  unusual  thing  for  farmers  who  were  in  possession 
of  a  suitable  team,  to  engage  in  the  business  whenever 
they  could  spare  the  time  from  their  own  fields. 

Since  the  evening  when  she  had  spoken  to  him,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  of  the  dismal  shadow  which  rested 
upon  their  names,  Mary  Potter  felt  that  there  was  an  inde 
finable  change  in  her  relation  to  her  son.  He  seemed  sud 
denly  drawn  nearer  to  her,  and  yet,  in  some  other  sense 
which  she  could  not  clearly  comprehend,  thrust  farther 
away.  His  manner,  always  kind  and  tender,  assumed  a 
shade  of  gentle  respect,  grateful  in  itself,  yet  disturbing, 
because  new  in  her  experience  of  him.  His  head  was 
slightly  lifted,  and  his  lips,  though  firm  as  ever,  less  rigidly 
compressed.  She  could  not  tell  how  it  was,  but  his  voice 


58  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

had  more  authority  in  her  ears.  She  had  never  before 
quite  disentangled  the  man  that  he  was  from  the  child  that 
he  had  been ;  but  now  the  separation,  sharp,  sudden,  and 
final,  was  impressed  upon  her  mind.  Under  all  the  loneli 
ness  which  came  upon  her,  when  the  musical  bells  of  his 
team  tinkled  into  silence  beyond  the  hill,  there  lurked  a 
strange  sense  of  relief,  as  if  her  nature  would  more  readily 
adjust  itself  during  his  absence. 

Instead  of  accepting  the  day  with  its  duties,  as  a  suffi 
cient  burden,  she  now  deliberately  reviewed  the  Past.  It 
would  give  her  pain,  she  knew ;  but  what  pain  could  she 
ever  feel  again,  comparable  to  that  which  she  had  so 
recently  suffered  ?  Long  she  brooded  over  that  bitter 
period  before  and  immediately  succeeding  her  son's  birth, 
often  declaring  to  herself  how  fatally  she  had  erred,  and 
as  often  shaking  her  head  in  hopeless  renunciation  of  any 
present  escape  from  the  consequences  of  that  error.  She 
saw  her  position  clearly,  yet  it  seemed  that  she  had  so 
entangled  herself  in  the  meshes  of  a  merciless  Fate,  that 
the  only  reparation  she  could  claim,  either  for  herself  or 
her  son,  would  be  thrown  away  by  forestalling  —  after  such 
endless,  endless  submission  and  suffering  —  the  Event 
which  should  set  her  free. 

Then  she  recalled  and  understood,  as  never  before, 
Gilbert's  childhood  and  boyhood.  For  his  sake  she  had 
accepted  menial  service  in  families  where  lie  was  looked 
upon  and  treated  as  an  incumbrance.  The  child,  it  had 
been  her  comfort  to  think,  was  too  young  to  know  or  feel 
this,  —  but  now,  alas!  the  remembrance  of  his  shyness  and 
sadness  told  her  a  different  tale.  So  nine  years  had  passed, 
and  she  was  then  forced  to  part  with  her  boy.  She  had 
bound  him  to  Farmer  Fairthorn,  whose  good  heart,  and 
his  wife's,  she  well  knew,  and  now  she  worked  for  him, 
alone,  putting  by  her  savings  every  year,  ami  stinting  her 
self  to  the  utmost  that  she  mio-ht  be  able  to  start  him  in 

o 

life,  if  he  should  live  to  be  his  own  master.     Little  by  little, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  59 

the  blot  upon  her  seemed  to  fade  out  or  be  forgotten,  and 
she  hoped  —  oh,  how  she  had  hoped !  —  that  he  might  be 
spared  the  knowledge  of  it. 

She  watched  him  grow  up,  a  boy  of  firm  will,  strong 
temper,  yet  great  self-control ;  and  the  easy  Fairthorn 
rule,  which  would  have  spoiled  a  youth  of  livelier  spirits, 
was.  providentially,  the  atmosphere  in  which  his  nature 
grew  more  serene  and  patient.  He  was  steady,  industri 
ous,  and  faithful,  and  the  Fairthorns  loved  him  almost  as 
their  own  son.  When  he  reached  the  age  of  eighteen,  he 
was  allowed  many  important  privileges :  he  hauled  flour  to 
^Newport,  having  a  share  of  the  profits,  and  in  other  ways 
earned  a  sum  which,  with  his  mother's  aid,  enabled  him  to 
buy  a  team  of  his  own,  on  coming  of  age. 

T\vo  years  more  of  this  weary,  lonely  labor,  and  the  one 
absorbing  aim  of  Mary  Potter's  life,  which  she  had  im 
pressed  upon  him  ever  since  he  was  old  enough  to  under 
stand  it,  drew  near  fulfilment.  The  farm  upon  which  they 
now  lived  was  sold,  and  Gilbert  became  the  purchaser. 
There  was  still  a  debt  of  a  thousand  dollars  upon  the 
property,  and  she  felt  that  until  it  was  paid,  they  possessed 
no  secure  home.  During  the  year  which  had  elapsed 
since  the  purchase,  Gilbert,  by  unwearied  labor,  had  laid 
up  about  four  hundred  dollars,  and  another  year,  he  had 
said,  if  he  should  prosper  in  his  plans,  would  see  them  free 
at  last !  Then.  —  let  the  world  say  what  it  chose  !  They 
had  fought  their  way  from  shame  and  poverty  to  honest 
independence,  and  the  respect  which  follows  success  would 
at  least  be  theirs. 

This  was  always  the  consoling  thought  to  which  Mary 
Potter  returned,  from  the  unallayed  trouble  of  her  mind. 
Day  by  day,  Gilbert's  new  figure  became  more  familiar, 
and  she  was  conscious  that  her  own  manner  towards  him 
must  change  with  it.  The  subject  of  his  birth,  however, 
and  the  new  difficulties  with  which  it  beset  her,  would  not 
be  thrust  aside.  For  years  she  had  almost  ceased  to  think 


60  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

of  the  possible  release,  of  which  she  had  spoken  ;  now  it 
returned  and  filled  her  with  a  strange,  restless  impatience. 

Gilbert,  also,  had  ample  time  to  review  his  own  position, 
during  the  fortnight's  absence.  After  passing  the  hills  and 
emerging  upon  the  long,  fertile  swells  of  Lancaster,  his 
experienced  leaders  but  rarely  needed  the  guidance  of  his 
hand  or  voice.  Often,  sunk  in  revery,  the  familiar  land 
marks  of  the  journey  went  by  unheeded  ;  often  he  lay 
awake  in  the  crowded  bedroom  of  a  tavern,  striving  to 
clear  a  path  for  his  feet  a  little  way  into  the  future.  Only 
men  of  the  profoundest  culture  make  a  deliberate  study  of 
their  own  natures,  but  those  less  gifted  often  act  with  an 
equal  or  even  superior  wisdom,  because  their  qualities 
operate  spontaneously,  unwatched  by  an  introverted  eye. 
Such  men  may  be  dimly  conscious  of  certain  inconsisten 
cies,  or  unsolved  puzzles,  in  themselves,  but  instead  of  sit 
ting  down  to  unravel  them,  they  seek  the  easiest  way  to 
pass  by  and  leave  them  untouched.  For  them  the  material 
aspects  of  life  are  of  the  highest  importance,  and  a  true 
instinct  shows  them  that  beyond  the  merest  superficial  ac 
quaintance  with  their  own  natures  lie  deep  and  disturbing 
questions,  with  which  they  are  not  fitted  to  grapple. 

There  comes  a  time,  however,  to  every  young  man,  even 
the  most  uncultivated,  when  he  touches  one  of  the  primal, 
eternal  forces  of  life,  and  is  conscious  of  other  needs  and 
another  destiny.  This  time  had  come  to  Gilbert  Potter, 
forcing  him  to  look  upon  the  circumstances  of  his  life  from 
a  loftier  point  of  view.  He  had  struggled,  passionately 
but  at  random,  for  light,  —  but,  fortunately,  every  earnest 
struggle  is  towards  the  light,  and  it  now  began  to  dawn 
upon  him. 

He  first  became  aware  of  one  enigma,  the  consideration 
of  which  was  not  so  easy  to  lay  aside.  His  mother  had 
not  been  deceived :  there  was  a  change  in  the  man  since 
that  evening.  Often  and  often,  in  gloomy  broodings  over 
his  supposed  disgrace,  he  had  fiercely  asserted  to  himself 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  61 

that  he  was  free  from  stain,  and  the  unrespect  in  which  he 
stood  was  an  injustice  to  be  bravely  defied.  The  brand 
which  he  wore,  and  which  he  fancied  was  seen  by  every 
eye  he  met,  existed  in  his  own  fancy  ;  his  brow  was  as 
pure,  his  right  to  esteem  and  honor  equal,  to  that  of  any 
other  man.  But  it  was  impossible  to  act  upon  this  reason 
ing  ;  still  when  the  test  came  he  would  shrink  and  feel  the 
pain,  instead  of  trampling  it  under  his  feet. 

Now  that  the  brand  was  removed,  the  strength  which  he 
had  so  desperately  craved,  was  suddenly  his.  So  far  as 
the  world  was  concerned,  nothing  was  altered  ;  no  one 
knew  of  the  revelation  which  his  mother  had  made  to  him  ; 
he  was  still  the  child  of  her  shame,  but  this  knowledge 
was  no  longer  a  torture.  Now  he  had  a  right  to  respect, 
not  asserted  only  to  his  own  heart,  but  which  every  man 
would  acknowledge,  were  it  made  known.  He  was  no 
longer  a  solitary  individual,  protesting  against  prejudice 
and  custom.  Though  still  feeling  that  the  protest  was 
just,  and  that  his  new  courage  implied  some  weakness,  he 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  knowledge  that  this 
very  weakness  was  the  practical  fountain  of  his  strength. 
He  was  a  secret  and  unknown  unit  of  the  great  majority. 

There  was  another,  more  intimate  subject  which  the 
new  knowledge  touched  very  nearly ;  and  here,  also,  hope 
dawned  upon  a  sense  akin  to  despair.  With  all  the  force 
of  his  nature,  Gilbert  Potter  loved  Martha  Deane.  He 
had  known  her  since  he  was  a  boy  at  Fairthorn's ;  her 
face  had  always  been  the  brightest  in  his  memory ;  but  it 
was  only  since  the  purchase  of  the  farm  that  his  matured 
manhood  had  fully  recognized  its  answering  womanhood 
in  her.  He  was  slow  to  acknowledge  the  truth,  even  to 
his  own  heart  and  when  it  could  no  longer  be  denied,  he 
locked  it  up  and  sealed  it  with  seven  seals,  determined 
never  to  betray  it,  to  her  or  any  one.  Then  arose  a  wild 
hope,  that  respect  might  come  with  the  independence  for 
which  he  was  laboring,  and  perhaps  he  might  dare  to  draw 


62  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

nearer,  —  near  enough  to  guess  if  there  were  any  answer 
in  her  heart.  It  was  a  frail  support,  but  he  clung  to  it  as 
with  his  life,  for  there  was  none  other. 

Now, —  although  his  uncertainty  was  as  great  as  ever, 
— his  approach  could  not  humiliate  her.  His  love  brought 
no  shadow  of  shame  ;  it  was  proudly  white  and  clean.  Ah ! 
he  had  forgotten  that  she  did  not  know,  —  that  his  lips 
were  sealed  until  his  mother's  should  be  opened  to  the 
world.  The  curse  was  not  to  be  shaken  off  so  easily. 

By  the  time  he  had  twice  traversed  the  long,  weary  road 
between  Columbia  and  Newport,  Gilbert  reached  a  des 
perate  solution  of  this  difficulty.  The  end  of  his  medita 
tions  was :  "  I  will  see  if  there  be  love  in  woman  as  in 
man!  —  love  that  takes  no  note  of  birth  or  station,  but, 
once  having  found  its  mate,  is  faithful  from  first  to  last." 
In  love,  an  honest  and  faithful  heart  touches  the  loftiest 
ideal.  Gilbert  knew  that,  were  the  case  reversed,  no  pos 
sible  test  could  shake  his  steadfast  affection,  and  how  else 
could  he  measure  the  quality  of  hers  ?  He  said  to  him 
self:  "Perhaps  it  is  cruel,  but  I  cannot  spare  her  the 
trial."  He  was  prouder  than  he  knew,  —  but  we  must 
remember  all  that  he  endured. 

It  was  a  dry,  windy  March  month,  that  year,  and  he 
made  four  good  trips  before  the  first  of  April,  Returning 
home  from  Newport,  by  way  of  Wilmington,  with  seventy- 
five  dollars  clear  profit  in  his  pocket,  his  prospects  seemed 
very  cheerful.  Could  he  accomplish  two  more  months  of 
hauling  during  the  year,  and  the  crops  should  be  fair,  the 
money  from  these  sources,  and  the  sale  of  his  wagon  and 
one  span,  would  be  something  more  than  enough  to  dis 
charge  the  remaining  debt.  He  knew,  moreover,  how  the 
farm  could  be  more  advantageously  worked,  having  used 
his  eyes  to  good  purpose  in  passing  through  the  rich,  abun 
dant  fields  of  Lancaster.  The  land  once  his  own,  —  which, 
like  his  mother,  he  could  not  yet  feel,  —  his  future,  in  a 
material  sense,  was  assured. 


THE  STORY  OF   KENNETT.  63 

Before  reaching  the  Buck  Tavern,  he  overtook  a  woman 
plodding  slowly  along  the  road.  Her  rusty  beaver  hat, 
tied  down  over  her  ears,  and  her  faded  gown,  were  in  sin 
gular  contrast  to  the  shining  new  scarlet  shawl  upon  her 
shoulders.  As  she  stopped  and  turned,  at  the  sound  of  his 
tinkling  bells,  she  showed  a  hard  red  face,  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  coarse  beauty,  and  he  recognized  Deb.  Smith,  a 
lawless,  irregular  creature,  well  known  about  Kennett. 

"  Good-day,  Deborah  !  "  said  he  ;  "  if  you  are  going  my 
way,  I  can  give  you  a  lift." 

"  He  calls  me  *  Deborah,' "  she  muttered  to  herself;  then 
aloud  —  "  Ay,  and  thank  ye,  Mr.  Gilbert." 

Seizing  the  tail  of  the  near  horse  with  one  hand,  she 
sprang  upon  the  wagon-tongue,  and  the  next  moment 
sat  upon  the  board  at  his  side.  Then,  rummaging  in  a 
deep  pocket,  she  produced,  one  after  the  other,  a  short 
black  pipe,  an  eel-skin  tobacco-pouch,  flint,  tinder,  and 
a  clumsy  knife.  With  a  dexterity  which  could  only  have 
come  from  long  habit,  she  prepared  and  kindled  the 
weed,  and  was  presently  puffing  forth  rank  streams,  with 
an  air  of  the  deepest  satisfaction. 

"  Which  way  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  Your  'n,  as  far  as  you  go,  —  always  providin'  you  takes 
me." 

"  Of  course,  Deborah,  you  're  welcome.  I  have  no  load, 
you  see." 

"  Mighty  clever  in  you,  Mr.  Gilbert ;  but  you  always 
was  one  o'  the  clever  ones.  Them  as  thinks  themselves 
better  born  "  — 

"  Come,  Deborah,  none  of  that !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Ax  your  pardon,"  she  said,  and  smoked  her  pipe  in 
silence.  When  she  had  finished  and  knocked  the  ashes 
out  against  the  front  panel  of  the  wagon,  she  spoke  again, 
in  a  hard,  bitter  voice,  — 

"  'T  is  n't  much  difference  what  /  am.  I  was  raised  on 
hard  knocks,  and  now  I  must  git  my  livin'  by  'em.  But  I 


64  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

axes  no  'un  's  help,  I  'm  that  proud,  anyways.  I  go  my 
own  road,  and  a  straighter  one,  too,  damme,  than  I  git 
credit  for,  but  I  let  other  people  go  their 'n.  You  might 
have  wuss  company  than  me,  though  /say  it." 

These  words  hinted  at  an  inward  experience  in  some 
respects  so  surprisingly  like  his  own,  that  Gilbert  was 
startled.  He  knew  the  reputation  of  the  woman,  though 
he  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  tell  whereupon  it  was 
based.  Everybody  said  she  was  bad,  and  nobody  knew 
particularly  why.  She  lived  alone,  in  a  log-cabin  in  the 
woods ;  did  washing  and  house-cleaning ;  worked  in  the 
harvest-fields ;  smoked,  and  took  her  gill  of  whiskey  with 
the  best  of  them,  —  but  other  vices,  though  inferred,  were 
not  proven.  Involuntarily,  he  contrasted  her  position,  in 
this  respect,  with  his  own.  The  world,  he  had  recently 
learned,  was  wrong  in  his  case  ;  might  it  not  also  be  doing 
her  injustice?  Her  pride,  in  its  coarse  way,  was  his  also, 
and  his  life,  perhaps,  had  only  unfolded  into  honorable 
success  through  a  mother's  ever-watchful  care  and  never- 
wearied  toil. 

"  Deborah,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  no  man  or  woman 
who  makes  an  honest  living  by  hard  work,  is  bad  company 
for  me.  I  am  trying  to  do  the  same  thing  that  you  are, — 
to  be  independent  of  others.  It 's  not  an  easy  thing  for 
anybody,  starting  from  nothing,  but  I  can  guess  that  it 
must  be  much  harder  for  you  than  for  me." 

"  Yes,  you  're  a  man  !  "  she  cried.  "  Would  to  God  I  'd 
been  one,  too !  A  man  can  do  everything  that  1  do,  and 
it's  all  right  and  proper.  Why  did  the  Lord  give  me 
strength  ?  Look  at  that !  "  She  bared  her  right  arm  — 

o  o 

hard,  knitted  muscle  from  wrist  to  shoulder — and  clenched 
her  fist.  "  What 's  that  for  ?  —  not  for  a  woman,  I  say  ; 
I  could  take  two  of  'em  by  the  necks  and  pitch  'em  over 
yon  fence.  I  've  felled  an  Irishman  like  an  ox  when  he 
called  me  names.  The  anger 's  in  me,  and  the  boldness 
and  the  roughness,  and  the  cursin' ;  I  did  n't  put  'em  there, 


THE  STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  65 


and  I  can't  git  'em  out  now,  if  I  tried  ever  so  much, 
did  they  snatch  the  sewin'  from  me  when  I  wanted  to 
learn  women's  work,  and  send  me  out  to  yoke  th'  oxen  ? 
I  do  believe  I  was  a  gal  onc't,  a  six-month  or  so,  but  it 's 
over  long  ago.  I  've  been  a  man  ever  since !  " 

She  took  a  bottle  out  of  her  pocket,  and  offerod  it  to 
Gilbert.  AVhen  he  refused,  she  simply  said:  "You're 
right !  "  set  it  to  her  mouth,  and  drank  long  and  deeply. 
There  was  a  wild,  painful  gleam  of  truth  in  her  words, 
which  touched  his  sympathy.  How  should  he  dare  to 
judge  this  unfortunate  creature,  not  knowing  what  per 
verse  freak  of  nature,  and  untoward  circumstances  of  life 
had  combined  to  make  her  what  she  was?  His  manner 
towards  her  was  kind  and  serious,  and  by  degrees  this 
covert  respect  awoke  in  her  a  desire  to  deserve  it.  She 
spoke  calmly  and  soberly,  exhibiting  a  wonderful  knowl 
edge  as  they  rode  onwards,  not  only  of  farming,  but  of 
animals,  trees,  and  plants. 

The  team,  knowing  that  home  and  rest  were  near, 
marched  cheerily  up  and  down  the  hills  along  the  border, 
and  before  sunset,  emerging  from  the  woods,  they  over 
looked  the  little  valley,  the  mill,  and  the  nestling  farm 
house.  An  Indian  war-whoop  rang  across  the  meadow, 
and  Gilbert  recognized  Sam's  welcome  therein. 

'•  Now,  Deborah,"  said  he,  "  you  shall  stop  and  have 
some  supper,  before  you  go  any  farther." 

"  I  'm  obliged,  all  the  same,"  said  she,  "  but  I  must  push 
on.  I  've  to  go  beyond  the  Square,  and  could  n't  wait. 
But  tell  your  mother  if  she  wants  a  man's  arm  in  house- 
cleanin'  time  to  let  me  know.  And,  Mr.  Gilbert,  let  me 
say  one  thing  :  give  me  your  hand." 

The  horses  had  stopped  to  drink  at  the  creek.  He  gave 
her  his  right  hand. 

She  held  it  in  hers  a  moment,  gazing  intently  on  the 
palm,     Then  she  bent  her  head  and  blew  upon  it  gently, 
three  times. 
5 


66  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Never  mind :  it 's  my  fancy,"  she  said.  "  You  're  born 
for  trial  and  good-luck,  but  the  trials  come  first,  all  of  a 
heap,  and  the  good  luck  afterwards.  You  've  got  a  friend 
in  Deb.  Smith,  if  you  ever  need  one.  Good-bye  to  ye  !  " 

With  these  words  she  sprang  from  the  wagon,  and 
trudged  off  silently  up  the  hill.  The  horses  turned  of 
themselves  into  the  lane  leading  to  the  barn,  and  Gilbert 
assisted  Sam  in  unharnessing  and  feeding  them  before 
entering  the  house.  By  the  time  he  was  ready  to  greet  his 
mother,  and  enjoy,  without  further  care,  his  first  evening  at 
home,  he  knew  everything  that  had  occurred  on  the  farm 
during  his  absence. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  67 


CHAPTER   VII. 

OLD    KEXXETT    MEETING. 

Ox  the  Sunday  succeeding  his  return,  Gilbert  Potter 
proposed  to  his  mother  that  they  should  attend  the  Friends' 
Meeting  at  Old  Kennett. 

The  Quaker  element,  we  have  already  stated,  largely 
predominated  in  this  part  of  the  county ;  and  even  the 
many  families  who  were  not  actually  members  of  the  sect 
were  strongly  colored  with  its  peculiar  characteristics. 
Though  not  generally  using  "  the  plain  speech "  among 
themselves,  they  invariably  did  so  towards  Quakers,  varied 
but  little  from  the  latter  in  dress  and  habits,  and,  with  very 
few  exceptions,  regularly  attended  their  worship.  In  fact, 
no  other  religious  attendance  was  possible,  without  a  Sab 
bath  journey  too  long  for  the  well-used  farm-horses.  To 
this  class  belonged  Gilbert  and  his  mother,  the  Fairthorns, 
and  even  the  Bartons.  Farmer  Fairthorn  had  a  birth 
right,  it  is  true,  until  his  marriage,  which  having  been  a 
stolen  match,  and  not  performed  according  to  "  Friends' 
ceremony,"  occasioned  his  excommunication.  He  might 
have  been  restored  to  the  rights  of  membership  by  admit 
ting  his  sorrow  for  the  offence,  but  this  he  stoutly  refused 
to  do.  The  predicament  was  not  an  unusual  one  in  the 
neighborhood ;  but  a  few,  among  whom  was  Dr.  Deane, 
Martha's  father,  submitted  to  the  required  humiliation.  As 
this  did  not  take  place,  however,  until  after  her  birth,  Mar 
tha  was  still  without  the  pale,  and  preferred  to  remain  so, 
for  two  reasons :  first,  that  a  scoop  bonnet  was  monstrous 
on  a  young  woman's  head ;  and  second,  that  she  was  pas- 


68  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

sionately  fond  of  music,  and  saw  no  harm  in  a  dance. 
This  determination  of  hers  was,  as  her  father  expressed 
himself,  a  "great  cross"  to  him;  but  she  had  a  habit  of 
paralyzing  his  argument  by  turning  against  him  the  testi 
mony  of  the  Friends  in  regard  to  forms  and  ceremonies, 
and  their  reliance  on  the  guidance  of  the  Spirit. 

Herein  Martha  was  strictly  logical,  and  though  she,  and 
others  who  belonged  to  the  same  class,  were  sometimes 
characterized,  by  a  zealous  Quaker,  in  moments  of  bitter 
ness,  as  being  "  the  world's  people,"  they  were  generally 
regarded,  not  only  with  tolerance,  but  in  a  spirit  of  frater 
nity.  The  high  seats  in  the  gallery  were  not  for  them,  but 
they  were  free  to  any  other  part  of  the  meeting-house  dur 
ing  life,  and  to  a  grave  in  the  grassy  and  briery  enclosure 
adjoining,  when  dead.  The  necessity  of  belonging  to  some 
organized  church  was  recognized  but  faintly,  if  at  all ;  pro 
vided  their  lives  were  honorable,  they  were  considered  very 
fair  Christians. 

Mary  Potter  but  rarely  attended  meeting,  not  from  any 
lack  of  the  need  of  worship,  but  because  she  shrank  with 
painful  timidity  from  appearing  in  the  presence  of  the  as 
sembled  neighborhood.  She  was,  nevertheless,  grateful  for 
Gilbert's  success,  and  her  heart  inclined  to  thanksgiving ; 
besides,  he  desired  that  they  should  go,  and  she  was  not 
able  to  oifer  any  valid  objection.  So,  after  breakfast,  the 
two  best  horses  of  the  team  were  very  carefully  groomed, 
saddled,  and  —  Sam  having  been  sent  off  on  a  visit  to  his 
father,  with  the  house-key  in  his  pocket  —  the  mother  and 
son  took  the  road  up  the  creek. 

Both  were  plainly,  yet  very  respectably,  dressed,  in  gar 
ments  of  the  same  home-made  cloth,  of  a  deep,  dark  brown 
color,  but  Mary  Potter  wore  under  her  cloak  the  new  crape 
shawl  which  Gilbert  had  brought  to  her  from  Wilmington, 
and  his  shirt  of  fine  linen  displayed  a  modest  ruffle  in  front. 
The  resemblance  in  their  faces  was  even  more  strongly 
marked,  in  the  common  expression  of  calm,  grave  reposa, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  69 

which  sprang  from  the  nature  of  their  journey.  A  stranger 
meeting  them  that  morning,  would  have  seen  that  they 
were  persons  of  unusual  force  of  character,  and  bound  to 
each  other  by  an  unusual  tie. 

Up  the  lovely  valley,  or  rather  glen,  watered  by  the  east 
ern  branch  of  Redley  Creek,  they  rode  to  the  main  high 
way.  It  was  an  early  spring,  and  the  low-lying  fields  were 
already  green  with  the  young  grass ;  the  weeping-willows 
in  front  of  the  farm-houses  seemed  to  spout  up  and  fall  like 
broad  enormous  geysers  as  the  wind  swayed  them,  and 
daffodils  bloomed  in  all  the  warmer  gardens.  The  dark 
foliage  of  the  cedars  skirting  the  road  counteracted  that 
indefinable  gloom  which  the  landscapes  of  early  spring,  in 
their  grayness  and  incompleteness,  so  often  inspire,  and 
mocked  the  ripened  summer  in  the  close  shadows  which 
they  threw.  It  was  a  pleasant  ride,  especially  after  mother 
and  son  had  reached  the  main  road,  and  other  horsemen 
and  horsewomen  issued  from  the  gates  of  farms  on  either 
side,  taking  their  way  to  the  meeting-house.  Only  two  or 
three  families  could  boast  vehicles,  —  heavy,  cumbrous 
"  chairs,"  as  they  were  called,  with  a  convex  canopy  resting 
on  four  stout  pillars,  and  the  bulging  body  swinging  from 
side  to  side  on  huge  springs  of  wood  and  leather.  No 
healthy  man  or  woman,  however,  unless  he  or  she  were 
very  old,  travelled  otherwise  than  on  horseback. 

Now  and  then  exchanging  grave  but  kindly  nods  with 
their  acquaintances,  they  rode  slowly  along  the  level  up 
land,  past  the  Anvil  Tavern,  through  Logtown,  —  a  cluster 
of  primitive  cabins  at  the  junction  of  the  Wilmington  Road, 
—  and  reached  the  meeting-house  in  good  season.  Gil 
bert  assisted  his  mother  to  alight  at  the  stone  platform 
built  for  that  purpose  near  the  women's  end  of  the  build 
ing,  and  then  fastened  the  horses  in  the  long,  open  shed  in 
the  rear.  Then,  as  was  the  custom,  he  entered  by  the 
men's  door,  and  quietly  took  a  seat  in  the  silent  assembly. 

The  stiff,  unpainted  benches  were  filled  with  the  congre- 


70  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

gation,  young  and  old,  wearing  their  hats,  and  with  a  stolid, 
drowsy  look  upon  their  faces.  Over  a  high  wooden  parti 
tion  the  old  women  in  the  gallery,  but  not  the  young  women 
on  the  floor  of  the  house,  could  be  seen.  Two  stoves,  with 
interminable  lengths  of  pipe,  suspended  by  wires  from  the 
ceiling,  created  a  stifling  temperature.  Every  slight  sound 
or  motion,  —  the  moving  of  a  foot,  the  drawing  forth  of  a 
pocket-handkerchief,  the  lifting  or  lowering  of  a  head,  — 
seemed  to  disturb  the  quiet  as  with  a  shock,  and  drew 
many  of  the  younger  eyes  upon  it ;  while  in  front,  like 
the  guardian  statues  of'  an  Egyptian  temple,  sat  the  older 
members,  with  their  hands  upon  their  knees  or  clasped 
across  their  laps.  Their  faces  were  grave  and  severe. 

After  nearly  an  hour  of  this  suspended  animation,  an  old 
•Friend  rose,  removed  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  placing 
his  hands  upon  the  rail  before  him,  began  slowly  swaying 
to  and  fro,  while  he  spoke.  As  he  rose  into  the  chant  pe 
culiar  to  the  sect,  intoning  alike  his  quotations  from  the 
Psalms  and  his  utterances  of  plain,  practical  advice,  an  ex 
pression  of  quiet  but  almost  luxurious  satisfaction  stole 
over  the  faces  of  his  aged  brethren.  With  half-closed  eyes 
and  motionless  bodies,  they  drank  in  the  sound  like  a  rich 
draught,  with  a  sense  of  exquisite  refreshment.  A  close 
connection  of  ideas,  a  logical  derivation  of  argument  from 
text,  wTould  have  aroused  their  suspicions  that  the  speaker 
depended  rather  upon  his  own  active,  conscious  intellect, 
than  upon  the  moving  of  the  Spirit ;  but  this  aimless  wan 
dering  of  a  half-awake  soul  through  the  cadences  of  a  lan 
guage  which  was  neither  song  nor  speech,  was,  to  their 
minds,  the  evidence  of  genuine  inspiration. 

When  the  old  man  sat  down,  a  woman  arose  and  chanted 
forth  the  suggestions  which  had  come  to  her  in  the  silence, 
in  a  voice  of  wonderful  sweetness  and  strength.  Here 
Music  seemed  to  revenge  herself  for  the  slight  done  to  her 
by  the  sect.  The  ears  of  the  hearers  were  so  charmed  by 
the  purity  of  tone,  and  the  delicate,  rhythmical  cadences 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  71 

of  the  sentences,  that  much  of  the  wise  lessons  repeated 
from  week  to  week  failed  to  reach  their  consciousness. 

After  another  interval  of  silence,  the  two  oldest  men 
reached  their  hands  to  each  other,  —  a  sign  which  the 
younger  members  had  anxiously  awaited.  The  spell  snap 
ped  hi  an  instant ;  all  arose  and  moved  into  the  open  air, 
where  all  things  at  first  appeared  to  wear  the  same  aspect 
of  solemnity.  The  poplar-trees,  the  stone  wall,  the  bushes 
in  the  corners  of  the  fence,  looked  grave  and  respectful 
for  a  few  minutes.  Neighbors  said,  "  How  does  thee  do  ?  " 
to  each  other,  in  subdued  voices,  a'hd  there  was  a  conscien 
tious  shaking  of  hands  all  around  before  they  dared  to  in 
dulge  in  much  conversation. 

Gradually,  however,  all  returned  to  the  out-door  world 
and  its  interests.  The  fences  became  so  many  posts  and 
rails  once  more,  the  bushes  so  many  elders  and  black 
berries  to  be  cut  away,  and  the  half-green  fields  so  much 
sod  for  corn-ground.  Opinions  in  regard  to  the  weather 
and  the  progress  of  spring  labor  were  freely  interchanged, 
and  the  few  unimportant  items  of  social  news,  which  had 
collected  in  seven  days,  were  gravely  distributed.  This 
was  at  the  men's  end  of  the  meeting-house ;  on  their  side, 
the  women  were  similarly  occupied,  but  we  can  only  con 
jecture  the  subjects  of  their  conversation.  The  young 
men  —  as  is  generally  the  case  in  religious  sects  of  a  rigid 
and  clannish  character  —  were  by  no  means  handsome. 
Their  faces  all  bore  the  stamp  of  repression,  in  some  form 
or  other,  and  as  they  talked  their  eyes  wandered  with 
an  expression  of  melancholy  longing  and  timidity  towards 
the  sweet,  maidenly  faces,  whose  bloom,  and  pure,  gentle 
beauty  not  even  their  hideous  bonnets  could  obscure. 

One  by  one  the  elder  men  came  up  to  the  stone  plat 
form  with  the  stable  old  horses  which  their  wives  were  to 
ride  home ;  the  huge  chair,  in  which  sat  a  privileged  couple, 
creaked  and  swayed  from  side  to  side,  as  it  rolled  with 
ponderous  dignity  from  the  yard ;  and  now,  while  the  girls 


72  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

were  waiting  their  turn,  the  grave  young  men  plucked  up 
courage,  wandered  nearer,  greeted,  exchanged  words,  and 
so  were  helped  into  an  atmosphere  of  youth. 

Gilbert,  approaching  with  them,  was  first  recognized  by 
his  old  friend,  Sally  Fairthorn,  whose  voice  of  salutation 
was  so  loud  and  cheery,  as  to  cause  two  or  three  sedate 
old  "  women-friends  "  to  turn  their  heads  in  grave  astonish 
ment.  Mother  Fairthorn,  with  her  bright,  round  face, 
followed,  and  then  —  serene  and  strong  in  her  gentle, 
symmetrical  loveliness  —  Martha  Deane.  Gilbert's  hand 
throbbed,  as  he  held  hers  a  moment,  gazing  into  the  sweet 
blue  of  her  eyes  ;  yet,  passionately  as  he  felt  that  he  loved 
her  in  that  moment,  perfect  as  was  the  delight  of  her  pres 
ence,  a  better  joy  came  to  his  heart  when  she  turned  away 
to  speak  with  his  mother.  Mark  Deane  —  a  young  giant 
with  curly  yellow  locks,  and  a  broad,  laughing  mouth  — 
had  just  placed  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  could 
not  watch  the  bearing  of  the  two  women  to  each  other ; 
but  all  his  soul  listened  to  their  voices,  and  he  heard  in 
Martha  Deane's  the  kindly  courtesy  and  respect  which  he 
did  not  see. 

Mother  Fairthorn  and  Sally  so  cordially  insisted  that 
Mary  Potter  and  her  son  should  ride  home  with  them  to 
dinner,  that  no  denial  was  possible.  When  the  horses 
were  brought  up  to  the  block  the  yard  was  nearly  empty, 
and  the  returning  procession  was  already  winding  up  the 
hill  towards  Logtown. 

"  Come,  Mary,"  said  Mother  Fairthorn,  "  you  and  I  will 
ride  together,  and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  your  ducks 
and  turkeys.  The  young  folks  can  get  along  without  us, 
I  guess." 

Martha  Deane  had  ridden  to  meeting  in  company  with 
her  cousin  Mark  and  Sally,  but  the  order  of  the  homeward 
ride  was  fated  to  be  different.  Joe  and  Jake,  bestriding 
a  single  horse,  like  two  of  the  Haymon's-children,  were 
growing  impatient,  so  they  took  the  responsibility  of  dash- 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  73 

ing  up  to  Mark  and  Sally,  who  were  waiting  in  the  road, 
and  announcing,  — 

"  Cousin  Martha  says  we  're  to  go  on ;  she  '11  ride  with 
Gilbert" 

Both  well  knew  the  pranks  of  the  boys,  but  perhaps  they 
found  the  message  well-invented  if  not  true ;  for  they 
obeyed  with  secret  alacrity,  although  Sally  made  a  becom 
ing  show  of  reluctance.  Before  they  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  hollow,  Joe  and  Jake,  seeing  two  school-mates  in 
advance,  similarly  mounted,  dashed  off  in  a  canter,  to 'over 
take  them,  and  the  two  were  left  alone. 

Gilbert  and  Martha  naturally  followed,  since  not  more 
than  two  could  conveniently  ride  abreast.  But  their  move 
ments  were  so  quiet  and  deliberate,  and  the  accident  which 
threw  them  together  was  accepted  so  simply  and  calmly 
that  no  one  could  guess  what  warmth  of  longing,  of  rever 
ential  tenderness,  beat  in  every  muffled  throb  of  one  of  the 
two  hearts. 

Martha  was  an  admirable  horsewoman,  and  her  slender, 
pliant  figure  never  showed  to  greater  advantage  than  in 
the  saddle.  Her  broad  beaver  hat  was  tied  down  over  the 
ears,  throwing  a  cool  gray  shadow  across  her  clear,  joyous 
eyes  and  fresh  cheeks.  A  pleasanter  face  never  touched 
a  young  man's  fancy,  and  every  time  it  turned  towards 
Gilbert  it  brightened  away  the  distress  of  love.  He  caught, 
unconsciously,  the  serenity  of  her  mood,  and  foretasted  the 
peace  which  her  being  would  bring  to  him  if  it  were  ever 
intrusted  to  his  hands. 

u  Did  you  do  well  by  your  hauling,  Gilbert,"  she  asked, 
"  and  are  you  now  home  for  the  summer  ?  " 

"Until  after  corn-planting,"  he  answered.  "Then  I 
must  take  two  or  three  weeks,  as  the  season  turns  out.  I 
am  not  able  to  give  up  my  team  yet." 

"  But  you  soon  will  be,  I  hope.  It  must  be  very  lonely 
for  your  mother  to  be  on  the  farm  without  you." 

These  words  touched  him  gratefully,  and  led  him  to  a 


74  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

candid  openness  of  speech  which  he  would  not  otherwise 
have  ventured,  —  not  from  any  inherent  lack  of  candor, 
but  from  a  reluctance  to  speak  of  himself. 

"  That 's  it,1  Martha,"  he  said.  "It  is  her  work  that  I 
have  the  farm  at  all,  and  I  only  go  away  the  oftener  now, 
that  I  may  the  sooner  stay  with  her  altogether.  The 
thought  of  her  makes  each  trip  lonelier  than  the  last." 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  Gilbert.  And  it  must  be 
a  comfort  to  you,  withal,  to  know  that  you  are  working 
as  much  for  your  mother's  sake  as  your  own.  I  think  I 
should  feel  so,  at  least,  in  your  place.  I  feel  my  own  moth 
er's  loss  more  now  than  when  she  died,  for  I  was  then  so 
young  that  I  can  only  just  remember  her  face." 

"  But  you  have  a  father !  "  he  exclaimed,  and  the  words 
were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  before  he  became  aware 
of  their  significance,  uttered  by  his  lips.  He  had  not 
meant  so  much,  —  only  that  she,  like  him,  still  enjoyed 
one  parent's  care.  The  blood  came  into  his  face  ;  she  saw 
and  understood  the  sign,  and  broke  a  silence  which  would 
soon  have  become  painful. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  very  grateful  that  he  is 
spared ;  but  we  seem  to  belong  most  to  our  mothers." 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  he  said  firmly,  lifting  his  head  with 
the  impulse  of  his  recovered  pride,  and  meeting  her  eyes 
without  flinching.  "  I  belong  altogether  to  mine.  She  has 
made  me  a  man  and  set  me  upon  my  feet.  From  this  time 
forward,  my  place  is  to  stand  between  her  and  the  world ! " 

Martha  Deane's  blood  throbbed  an  answer  to  this  asser 
tion  of  himself.  A  sympathetic  pride  beamed  in  her  eyes ; 
she  slightly  bent  her  head,  in  answer,  without  speaking, 
and  Gilbert  felt  that  he  was  understood  and  valued.  He 
had  drawn  a  step  nearer  to  the  trial  which  he  had  resolved 
to  make,  and  would  now  venture  no  further. 

There  was  a  glimmering  spark  of  courage  in  his  heart 
He  was  surprised,  in  recalling  the  conversation  afterwards, 
to  find  how  much  of  his  plans  he  had  communicated  to  her 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  75 

during  the  ride,  encouraged  by  the  kindly  interest  she 
manifested,  and  the  sensible  comments  she  uttered.  Joe 
and  Jake,  losing  their  mates  at  a  cross-road,  and  finding 
Sally  and  Mark  Deane  not  very  lively  company  for  them, 
rode  back  and  disturbed  these  confidences,  but  not  until 
they  had  drawn  the  two  into  a  relation  of  acknowledged 
mutual  interest. 

Martha  Deane  had  always,  as  she  confessed  to  Sally, 
liked  Gilbert  Potter ;  she  liked  every  young  man  of  charac 
ter  and  enejgy ;  but  now  she  began  to  suspect  that  there 
was  a  rarer  worth  in  his  nature  than  she  had  guessed. 
From  that  day  he  was  more  frequently  the  guest  of  her 
thoughts  than  ever  before.  Instinct,  in  him,  had  performed 
the  same  service  which  men  of  greater  experience  of  the 
world  would  have  reached  through  keen  perception  and 
careful  tact,  —  in  confiding  to  her  his  position,  his  labors 
and  hopes,  material  as  was  the  theme  and  seemingly  un- 
suited  to  the  occasion,  he  had  in  reality  appreciated  the 
serious,  reflective  nature  underlying  her  girlish  grace  and 
gayety.  What  other  young  man  of  her  acquaintance,  she 
asked  herself,  would  have  done  the  same  thing  ? 

When  they  reached  Kennett  Square,  Mother  Fairthora 
urged  Martha  to  accompany  them,  and  Sally  impetuously 
seconded  the  invitation.  Dr.  Deane's  horse  was  at  his 
door,  however,  and  his  daughter,  with  her  eyes  on  Gilbert, 
as  if  saying  "  for  my  father's  sake,"  steadfastly  declined. 
Mark,  however,  took  her  place,  but  there  never  had  been, 
or  could  be,  too  many  guests  at  the  Fairthorn  table. 

When  they  reached  the  garden-wall,  Sally  sprang  from 
her  horse  with  such  haste  that  her  skirt  caught  on  the 
pommel  and  left  her  hanging,  being  made  of  stuff  too  stout 
to  tear.  It  was  well  that  Gilbert  was  near,  on  the  same 
side,  and  disengaged  her  in  an  instant ;  but  her  troubles 
did  not  end  here.  As  she  bustled  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen, 
preparing  the  dinner-table  in  the  long  sitting-room,  the 
hooks  and  door-handles  seemed  to  have  an  unaccountable 


76  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

habit  of  thrusting  themselves  in  her  way,  and  she  was 
ready  to  cry  at  each  glance  of  Mark's  laughing  eyes.  She 
had  never  heard  the  German  proverb,  "  who  loves,  teases," 
and  was  too  inexperienced,  as  yet,  to  have  discovered  the 
fact  for  herself. 

Presently  they  all  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  after  the  first 
solemn  quiet,  —  no  one  venturing  to  eat  or  speak  until  the 
plates  of  all  had  been  heaped  with  a  little  of  everything 
upon  the  table,  —  the  meal  became  very  genial  and  pleas 
ant.  A  huge  brown  pitcher  of  stinging  cider  added  its 
mild  stimulus  to  the  calm  country  blood,  and  under  its 
mellowing  influence  Mark  announced  the  most  important 
fact  of  his  life, — he  was  to  have  the  building  of  Hallo  well's 
barn. 

As  Gilbert  and  his  mother  rode  homewards,  that  after 
noon,  neither  spoke  much,  but  both  felt,  in  some  indefinite 
way,  better  prepared  for  the  life  that  lay  before  them. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  77 


CHAPTER  VIH. 

AT  DR.  DEANE'S. 

As  she  dismounted  on  the  large  flat  stone  outside  the 
paling,  Martha  Deane  saw  her  father's  face  at  the  window. 
It  was  sterner  and  graver  than  usual. 

The  Deane  mansion  stood  opposite  the  Unicorn  Tavern. 
"When  huilt,  ninety  years  previous,  it  had  been  considered 
a  triumph  of  architecture  ;  the  material  was  squared  logs 
from  the  forest,  dovetailed,  and  overlapping  at  the  corners, 
which  had  the  effect  of  rustic  quoins,  as  contrasted  with 
the  front,  which  was  plastered  and  yellow-washed.  A 
small  portico,  covered  with  a  tangled  mass  of  eglantine 
and  coral  honeysuckle,  with  a  bench  at  each  end,  led  to 
the  door ;  and  the  ten  feet  of  space  between  it  and  the 
front  paling  were  devoted  to  flowers  and  rose-bushes.  At 
each  corner  of  the  front  rose  an  old,  picturesque,  strag 
gling  cedar-tree. 

There  were  two  front  doors,  side  by  side,  —  one  for  the 
family  sitting-room,  the  other  (rarely  opened,  except  when 
guests  arrived)  for  the  parlor.  Martha  Deane  entered  the 
former,  and  we  will  enter  with  her. 

The  room  was  nearly  square,  and  lighted  by  two  win 
dows.  On  those  sides  the  logs  were  roughly  plastered ; 
on  the  others  there  were  partitions  of  panelled  oak,  nearly 
black  with  age  and  smoke,  as  were  the  heavy  beams  of 
the  same  wood  which  formed  the  ceiling.  In  the  corner 

o 

of  the  room  next  the  kitchen  there  was  an  open  Frank 
lin  stove,  —  an  innovation  at  that  time,  —  upon  which  two 
or  three  hickory  sticks  were  smouldering  into  snowy  ashes. 


78  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  a  country-made  rag  carpet,  in 
which  an  occasional  strip  of  red  or  blue  listing  bright 
ened  the  prevailing  walnut  color  of  the  woof.  The  furni 
ture  was  simple  and  massive,  its  only  unusual  feature  being 
a  tall  cabinet  with  shelves  filled  with  glass  jars,  and  an  in 
finity  of  small  drawers.  A  few  bulky  volumes  on  the  lower 
shelf  constituted  the  medical  library  of  Dr.  Deane. 

This  gentleman  was  still  standing  at  the  window,  with 
his  hands  clasped  across  his  back.  His  Quaker  suit  was 
of  the  finest  drab  broadcloth,  and  the  plain  cravat  visible 
above  his  high,  straight  waistcoat,  was  of  spotless  cam 
bric.  His  knee-  and  shoe-buckles  were  of  the  simplest 
pattern,  but  of  good,  solid  silver,  and  there  was  not  a 
wrinkle  in  the  stockings  of  softest  lamb's-wool,  which  cov 
ered  his  massive  calves.  There  was  always  a  faint  odor 
of  lavender,  bergamot,  or  sweet  marjoram  about  him,  and 
it  was  a  common  remark  in  the  neighborhood  that  the 
sight  and  smell  of  the  Doctor  helped  a  weak  patient  almost 
as  much  as  his  medicines. 

In  his  face  there  was  a  curious  general  resemblance  to 
his  daughter,  though  the  detached  features  were  very  dif 
ferently  formed.  Large,  unsymmetrical,  and  somewhat 
coarse,  —  even  for  a  man,  —  they  derived  much  of  their 
effect  from  his  scrupulous  attire  and  studied  air  of  wisdom. 
His  long  gray  hair  was  combed  back,  that  no  portion  of 
the  moderate  frontal  brain  might  be  covered ;  the  eyes 
were  gray  rather  than  blue,  and  a  habit  of  concealment 
had  marked  its  lines  in  the  corners,  unlike  the  open,  perfect 
frankness  of  his  daughter's.  The  principal  resemblance 
was  in  the  firm,  clear  outline  of  the  upper  lip,  which  alone, 
in  his  face,  had  it  been  supported  by  the  under  one,  would 
have  made  him  almost  handsome ;  but  the  latter  was 
large  and  slightly  hanging.  There  were  marked  incon 
sistencies  in  his  face,  but  this  was  no  disadvantage  in  a 
community  unaccustomed  to  studying  the  external  marks 
of  character. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  79 

"  Just  home,  father  ?  How  did  thee  leave  Dinah  Pass- 
more  ?  "  asked  Martha,  as  she  untied  the  strings  of  her 
beaver. 

"  Better,"  he  answered,  turning  from  the  window ;  "  but, 
Martha,  who  did  I  see  thee  riding  with  ?  " 

"  Does  thee  mean  Gilbert  Potter  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  he  said,  and  paused.  Martha,  with  her  cloak 
over  her  arm  and  bonnet  in  her  hand,  in  act  to  leave  the 
room,  waited,  saying,  — 

"  Well,  father"?  " 

So  frank  and  serene  was  her  bearing,  that  the  old  man 
felt  both  relieved  and  softened. 

"  I  suppose  it  happened  so,"  he  said.  "  I  saw  his  mother 
with  Friend  Fairthorn.  I  only  meant  thee  should  n't  be 
seen  in  company  with  young  Potter,  when  thee  could  help 
it ;  thee  knows  what  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  think,  father,"  she  slowly  answered,  "  there  is 
anything  against  Gilbert  Potter's  life  or  character,  except 
that  which  is  no  just  reproach  to  him" 

"  '  The  sins  of  the  parents  shall  be  visited  upon  the  chil 
dren,  even  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation.'  That  is 
enough,  Martha." 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  meditating,  with  an  earnest 
ness  almost  equal  to  Gilbert's,  upon  this  form  of  the  world's 
injustice,  which  he  was  powerless  to  overcome.  Her  father 
shared  it,  and  the  fact  did  not  surprise  her  ;  but  her  inde 
pendent  spirit  had  already  ceased  to  be  guided,  in  all 
things,  by  his  views.  She  felt  that  the  young  man  de 
served  the  respect  and  admiration  which  he  had  inspired 
in  her  mind,  and  until  a  better  reason  could  be  discovered, 
she  would  continue  so  to  regard  him.  The  decision  was 
reached  rapidly,  and  then  laid  aside  for  any  future  neces 
sity  ;  she  went  down-stairs  again  in  her  usual  quiet,  cheer 
ful  mood. 

During  her  absence  another  conversation  had  taken 
place 


80  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Miss  Betsy  Lavender  (who  was  a  fast  friend  of  Martha, 
and  generally  spent  her  Sundays  at  the  Doctor's,)  was 
sitting  before  the  stove,  drying  her  feet.  She  was  silent 
until  Martha  left  the  room,  when  she  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"  Doctor  !  Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged." 

"  Thee  may  think  as  thee  pleases,  Betsy,"  said  he,  rather 
sharply  :  "  it 's  thy  nature,  I  believe,  to  take  everybody's 
part." 

"  Put  yourself  in  his  place,"  she  continued,  —  "  remem 
ber  them  that 's  in  bonds  as  bound  with  'em,  —  1  disremem- 
ber  exackly  how  it  goes,  but  no  matter :  I  say  your  way 
a'n't  right,  and  I  'd  say  it  seven  times,  if  need  be  !  There  's 
no  steadier  nor  better-doin'  young  fellow  in  these  parts 
than  Gilbert  Potter.  Ferris,  down  in  Pennsbury,  or  Alf 
Barton,  here,  for  that  matter,  a'n't  to  be  put  within  a  mile 
of  him.  I  could  say  something  in  Mary  Potter's  behalf, 
too,  but  I  won't :  for  there  's  Scribes  and  Pharisees  about." 

Dr.  Deane  did  not  notice  this  thrust :  it  was  not  his  habit 
to  get  angry.  '*  Put  thyself  in  my  place,  Betsy,"  he  said. 
"  He  's  a  worthy  young  man,  in  some  respects,  I  grant  thee, 
but  would  thee  like  tlnj  daughter  to  be  seen  riding  home 
beside  him  from  Meeting  ?  It 's  one  thing  speaking  for 
thyself,  and  another  for  thy  daughter." 

"  Thy  daughter !  "  she  repeated.  "  Old  or  young  can't 
make  any  difference,  as  I  see." 

There  was  something  else  on  her  tongue,  but  she  forci 
bly  withheld  the  words.  She  would  not  exhaust  her  am 
munition  until  there  was  both  a  chance  and  a  necessity  to 
do  some  execution.  The  next  moment  Martha  reentered 
the  room. 

After  dinner,  they  formed  a  quiet  group  in  the  front  sit 
ting-room.  Dr.  Deane,  having  no  more  visits  to  make  that 
day,  took  a  pipe  of  choice  tobacco,  —  the  present  of  a  Vir 
ginia  Friend,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  at  Yearly 
Meeting,  —  and  seated  himself  in  the  arm-chair  beside  the 
stove.  Martha,  at  the  west  window,  enjoyed  a  volume  of 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXNETT.  81 

Hannah  More,  and  Miss  Betsy,  at  the  front  window, 
labored  over  the  Psalms.  The  sun  shone  with  dim,  muf 
fled  orb,  but  the  air  without  was  mild,  and  there  were 
already  brown  tufts,  which  would  soon  be  blossoms,  on  the 
lilac  twigs. 

Suddenly  Miss  Betsy  lifted  up  her  head  and  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  I  never !  "  As  she  did  so,  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door. 

"  Come  in  ! "  said  Dr.  Deane,  and  in  came  Mr.  Alfred 
Barton,  resplendent  in  blue  coat,  buff  waistcoat,  cambric 
ruffles,  and  silver-gilt  buckles.  But,  alas  !  the  bunch  of 
seals  —  topaz,  agate,  and  cornelian  —  no  longer  buoyed 
the  deep-anchored  watch.  The  money  due  his  father  had 
been  promptly  paid,  through  the  agency  of  a  three-months' 
promissory  note,  and  thus  the  most  momentous  result  of 
the  robbery  was  overcome.  This  security  for  the  future, 
however,  scarcely  consoled  him  for  the  painful  privation 
of  the  present.  Without  the  watch,  Alfred  Barton  felt 
that  much  of  his  dignity  and  importance  was  lacking. 

Dr.  Deane  greeted  his  visitor  with  respect,  Martha  with 
the  courtesy  due  to  a  guest,  and  Miss  Betsy  with  the  off 
hand,  independent  manner,  under  which  she  masked  her 
private  opinions  of  the  persons  whom  she  met. 

"  Mark  is  n't  at  home,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Barton,  after  hav 
ing  taken  his  seat  in  the  centre  of  the  room :  "  I  thought 
I  'd  have  a  little  talk  with  him  about  the  wagon-house.  I 
suppose  he  told  you  that  I  got  Hallowell's  new  barn  for 
him?" 

"  Yes,  and  we  're  all  greatly  obliged  to  thee,  as  well  as 
Mark,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  The  two  jobs  make  a  fine  start 
for  a  young  mechanic,  and  I  hope  he  '11  do  as  well  as  he  's 
been  done  by:  there  's  luck  in  a  good  beginning.  By 
the  bye,  has  thee  heard  anything  more  of  Sandy  Flash's 
doings  ?  " 

Mr.  Barton  fairly  started  at  this  question.  His  own  mis 
fortune  had  been  carefully  kept  secret,  and  he  could  not 
6 


82  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

suspect  that  the  Doctor  knew  it ;  but  he  nervously  dreaded 
the  sound  of  the  terrible  name. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  He  has  turned  up  in  Bradford,  this  time,  and  they  say 
has  robbed  Jesse  Frame,  the  Collector,  of  between  four 
and  five  hundred  dollars.  The  Sheriff  and  a  posse  of  men 
from  the  Valley  hunted  him  for  several  days,  but  found  no 
signs.  Some  think  he  has  gone  up  into  the  Welch  Moun 
tain  ;  but  for  my  part,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  were 
in  this  neighborhood." 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Barton,  starting  from 
his  chair. 

"  Now  's  your  chance,"  said  Miss  Betsy.  "  Git  the  young 
men  together  who  won't  feel  afraid  o'  bein'  twenty  ag'in 
one :  you  know  the  holes  and  corners  where  he  '11  be  likely 
to  hide,  and  what 's  to  hinder  you  from  ketchin'  him  ?  " 

"  But  he  must  have  many  secret  friends,"  said  Martha, 
"  if  what  I  have  heard  is  true,  —  that  he  has  often  helped 
a  poor  man  with  the  money  which  he  takes  only  from  the 
rich.  You  know  he  still  calls  himself  a  Tory,  and  many 
of  those  whose  estates  have  been  confiscated,  would  not 
scruple  to  harbor  him,  or  even  take  his  money." 

"Take  his  money.  That  's  a  fact,"  remarked  Miss 
Betsy,  "  and  now  I  dunno  whether  I  want  him  ketched. 
There  's  worse  rnen'goin'  round,  as  respectable  as  you 
please,  stealin'  all  their  born  days,  only  cunnin'ly  jukin' 
round  the  law  instead  o'  buttin'  square  through  it.  Why, 
old  Liz  Williams,  o'  Birmingham,  herself  told  me  with  her 
own  mouth,  how  she  was  ridin'  home  from  Phildelphy  mar 
ket  last  winter,  with  six  dollars,  the  price  of  her  turkeys  — 
and  General  Washin'ton's  cook  took  one  of  'em,  but  that 's 
neither  here  nor  there  —  in  her  pocket,  and  fearful  as 
death  when  she  come  to  Concord  woods,  and  lo  and  be 
hold  !  there  she  was  overtook  by  a  fresh-complected  man, 
and  she  begged  him  to  ride  with  her,  for  she  had  six  dol 
lars  in  her  pocket  and  Sandy  was  known  to  be  about.  So 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  83 

he  rode  with  her  to  her  very  lane-end,  as  kind  and  civil  a 
person  as  she  ever  see,  and  then  and  there  he  said,  '  Don't 
be  afeard,  Madam,  for  I,  which  have  seen  you  home,  is 
Sandy  Flash  himself,  and  here  's  somethin'  more  to  remem 
ber  me  by,'  —  no  sooner  said  than  done,  he  put  a  goold 
guinea  into  her  hand,  and  left  her  there  as  petrified  as 
Lot's  wife.  Now  /say,  and  it  may  be  violation  of  the  law, 
for  all  I  know,  but  never  mind,  that  Sandy  Flash  has  got 
one  corner  of  his  heart  in  the  right  place,  no  matter  where 
the  others  is.  There  's  honor  even  among  thieves,  they 
say." 

"  Seriously,  Alfred,"  said  Dr.  Deane,  cutting  Miss  Betsy 
short  before  she  had  half  expressed  her  sentiments,  *•  it  is 
time  that  something  was  done.  If  Flash  is  not  caught 
soon,  we  shall  be  overrun  with  thieves,  and  there  will  be 
no  security  anywhere  on  the  high  roads,  or  in  our  houses. 
I  wish  that  men  of  influence  in  the  neighborhood,  like  thy 
self,  would  come  together  and  plan,  at  least,  to  keep  Ken- 
nett  clear  of  him.  Then  other  townships  may  do  the 
same,  and  so  the  thing  be  stopped.  If  I  were  younger, 
and  my  practice  were  not  so  laborious,  I  would  move  in 
the  matter,  but  thee  is  altogether  a  more  suitable  per 
son." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  Barton  replied,  with  an  irrepressi 
ble  reluctance,  around  which  he  strove  to  th'rowr  an  air  of 
modesty.  "  That  would  be  the  proper  way,  certainly,  but  I, 
—  I  don't  know,  —  that  is,  I  can't  flatter  myself  that  I  'm 
the  best  man  to  undertake  it." 

"  It  requires  some  courage,  you  know,"  Martha  remarked, 
and  her  glance  made  him  feel  very  uncomfortable,  "  and 
you  are  too  dashing  a  fox-hunter  not  to  have  that.  Per 
haps  the  stranger  who  rode  with  you  to  Avondale  —  what 
was  his  name  ?  —  might  be  of  service.  If  I  were  in  your 
place,  I  should  be  glad  of  a  chance  to  incur  danger  for  the 
good  of  the  neighborhood." 

Mr.  Alfred  Barton  was  on  nettles.     If  there  were  irony 


84  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

in  her  words  his  intellect  was  too  muddy  to  detect  it :  her 
assumption  of  his  courage  could  only  be  accepted  as  a  com 
pliment,  but  it  was  the  last  compliment  he  desired  to  have 
paid  to  himself,  just  at  that  time. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  forced  laugh,  rushing  desperately 
into  the  opposite  extreme,  "  but  the  danger  and  the  courage 
are  not  worth  talking  about.  Any  man  ought  to  be  able  to 
face  a  robber,  single-handed,  and  as  for  twenty  men,  why, 
when  it  's  once  known,  Sandy  Flash  will  only  be  too  glad 
to  keep  away." 

"  Then,  do  thee  do  what  I  Ve  recommended.  It  may 
be,  as  thee  says,  that  the  being  prepared  is  all  that  is  nec 
essary,"  remarked  Dr.  Deane. 

Thus  caught,  Mr.  Barton  could  do  no  less  than  acqui 
esce,  and  very  much  to  his  secret  dissatisfaction,  the  Doctor 
proceeded  to  name  the  young  men  of  the  neighborhood, 
promising  to  summon  such  as  lived  on  the  lines  of  his  pro 
fessional  journeys,  that  they  might  confer  with  the  leader 
of  the  undertaking.  Martha  seconded  the  plan  with  an 
evident  interest,  yet  it  did  not  escape  her  that  neither  her 
father  nor  Mr.  Barton  had  mentioned  the  name  of  Gilbert 
Potter. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  she  asked,  when  a  list  of  some  eighteen 
persons  had  been  suggested.  Involuntarily,  she  looked  at 
Miss  Betsy  Lavender. 

«No,  indeed!"  cried  the  latter.  "There's  Jabez  Tra- 
villa,  up  on  the  ridge,  and  Gilbert  Potter,  down  at  the 
mill." 

"  H'm,  yes ;  what  does  thee  say,  Alfred  ? "  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  They  're  both  good  riders,  and  I  think  they  have  cour 
age  enough,  but  we  can  never  tell  what  a  man  is  until  he  's 
been  tried.  They  would  increase  the  number,  and  that,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  a  consideration." 

"  Perhaps  thee  had  better  exercise  thy  own  judgment 
there,"  the  Doctor  observed,  and  the  subject,  having  been 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  85 

as  fully  discussed  as  was  possible  without  consultation  with 
other  persons,  it  was  dropped,  greatly  to  Barton's  relief. 

But  in  endeavoring  to  converse  with  Martha  he  only 
exchanged  one  difficulty  for  another.  His  vanity,  power 
ful  as  it  was.  gave  way  before  that  instinct  which  is  the 
curse  and  torment  of  vulgar  natures,  —  which  leaps  into 
life  at  every  contact  of  refinement,  showing  them  the  gulf 
between,  which  they  know  not  how  to  cross.  The  impu 
dence,  the  aggressive  rudeness  which  such  natures  often 
exhibit,  is  either  a  mask  to  conceal  their  deficiency,  or  an 
angry  protest  against  it.  TVhere  there  is  a  drop  of  gentle 
ness  in  the  blood,  it  appreciates  and  imitates  the  higher 
nature. 

This  was  the  feeling  which  made  Alfred  Barton  uncom 
fortable  in  the  presence  of  Martha  Deane, —  which  told 
him,  in  advance,  that  natures  so  widely  sundered,  never 
could  come  into  near  relations  with  each  other,  and  thus 
quite  neutralized  the  attraction  of  her  beauty  and  her  ten 
thousand  dollars.  His  game,  however,  was  to  pay  court 
to  her,  and  in  so  pointed  a  way  that  it  should  be  remarked 
and  talked  about  hi  the  neighborhood.  Let  it  once  come 
through  others  to  the  old  man's  ears,  he  would  have  proved 
his  obedience  and  could  not  be  reproached  if  the  result 
were  fruitless. 

"  What  are  you  reading,  Miss  Martha  ?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  long  and  somewhat  awkward  pause. 

She  handed  him  the  book  in  reply. 

"  Ah  !  Hannah  More,  —  a  friend  of  yours  ?  Is  she  one 
of  the  West-Whiteland  Moores  ?  " 

Martha  could  not  suppress  a  light,  amused  laugh,  as  she 
answered  :  "  Oh,  no.  she  is  an  English  woman." 

"  Then  it 's  a  Tory  book,"  said  he,  handing  it  back ;  "  I 
would  n't  read  it,  if  I  was  you." 

"  It  is  a  story,  and  I  should  think  you  might." 

He  heard  other  words  than  those  she  spoke.  "As 
Tory  as  —  what?"  he  asked  himself.  "As  I  am"  of 


86  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

course  ;  that  is  what  she  means.  "  Old-man  Barton  "  had 
been  one  of  the  disloyal  purveyors  for  the  British  army 
during  its  occupancy  of  Philadelphia  in  the  winter  of 
1777-8,  and  though  the  main  facts  of  the  traffic  where- 
from  he  had  drawn  immense  profits,  never  could  be  proved 
against  him,  the  general  belief  hung  over  the  family,  and 
made  a  very  disagreeable  cloud.  Whenever  Alfred  Bar 
ton  quarrelled  with  any  one,  the  taunt  was  sure  to  be  flung 
into  his  teeth.  That  it  came  now,  as  he  imagined,  was  as 
great  a  shock  as  if  Martha  had  slapped  him  in  the  face 
with  her  own  delicate  hand,  and  his  visage  reddened 
from  the  blow. 

Miss  Betsy  Lavender,  bending  laboriously  over  the 
Psalms,  nevertheless  kept  her  dull  gray  eyes  in  move 
ment.  She  saw  the  misconception,  and  fearing  that  Martha 
did  not,  made  haste  to  remark :  — 

"  Well,  Mr.  Alfred,  and  do  you  think  it 's  a  harm  to  read 
a  story  ?  Why,  Miss  Ann  herself  lent  me  f  Alonzo  and 
Melissa,'  and  '  Midnight  Horrors,'  and  I  '11  be  bound  you  've 
read  'em  yourself  on  the  sly.  'T  a'n't  much  other  readin' 
men  does,  save  and  except  the  weekly  paper,  and  law 
enough  to  git  a  tight  hold  on  their  debtors.  Come,  now, 
let 's  know  what  you  do  read  ?  " 

"Not  much  of  anything,  that's  a  fact,"  he  answered, 
recovering  himself,  with  a  shudder  at  the  fearful  mistake 
he  had  been  on  the  point  of  making,  "  but  I  've  nothing 
against  women  reading  stories.  I  was  rather  thinking  of 
myself  when  I  spoke  to  you,  Miss  Martha." 

"  So  I  supposed,"  she  quietly  answered.  It  was  provok 
ing.  Everything  she  said  made  him  think  there  was  an 
other  meaning  behind  the  words ;  her  composed  manner, 
though  he  knew  it  to  be  habitual,  more  and  more  discon 
certed  him.  Never  did  an  intentional  wooer  find  his 
wooing  so  painful  and  laborious.  After  this  attempt  he 
addressed  himself  to  Doctor  Deane,  for  even  the  question 
of  circumventing  Sandy  Flash  now  presented  itself  to  his 
mind  as  a  relief. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  87 

There  he  sat,  and  the  conversation  progressed  in  jerks 
and  spirts,  between  pauses  of  embarrassing  silence.  The 
sun  hung  on  the  western  hill  in  a  web  of  clouds ;  Martha 
and  Miss  Betsy  rose  and  prepared  the  tea-table,  and  the 
guest,  invited  perforce,  perforce  accepted.  Soon  after  the 
meal  was  over,  however,  he  murmured  something  about 
cattle,  took  his  hat  and  left. 

Two  or  three  horses  were  hitched  before  the  Unicorn, 
and  he  saw  some  figures  through  the  bar-room  window. 
A  bright  thought  struck  him ;  he  crossed  the  road  and 
entered. 

"  Hallo,  Alf !  Where  from  now  ?  Why,  you  're  as  fine 
as  a  fiddler ! "  cried  Mr.  Joel  Ferris,  who  was  fast  be 
coming  familiar,  on  the  strength  of  his  inheritance. 

"  Over  the  way,"  answered  the  landlord,  with  a  wink  and 
a  jerk  of  his  thumb. 

Mr.  Ferris  whistled,  and  one  of  the  others  suggested: 
"  He  must  stand  a  treat,  on  that." 

"  But,  I  say ! "  said  the  former,  "  how  is  it  you  're  coming 
a»vay  so  soon  in  the  evening  ?  " 

*k  I  went  very  early  in  the  afternoon,"  Barton  answered, 
with  a  mysterious,  meaning  smile,  as  much  as  to  say  :  "  It 's 
all  right ;  I  know  what  I  'm  about."  Then  he  added  aloud, 
—  •'  Step  up,  fellows  ;  what  '11  you  have  ?  " 

Many  were  the  jests  and  questions  to  which  he  was 
forced  to  submit,  but  he  knew  the  value  of  silence  in 
creating  an  impression,  and  allowed  them  to  enjoy  their 
own  inferences. 

It  is  much  easier  to  start  a  report,  than  to  counteract  it, 
when  once  started ;  but  the  first,  only,  was  his  business. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  he  returned  home,  and 
the  household  were  in  bed.  Nevertheless,  he  did  not  enter 
by  the  back  way,  in  his  stockings,  but  called  Giles  down 
from  the  garret  to  unlock  the  front-door,  and  made  as 
much  noise  as  he  pleased  on  his  way  to  bed. 

The  old  man  heard  it,  and  chuckled  under  his  coverlet. 


88  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    RAISING. 

STEADILY  and  serenely  the  Spring  advanced.  Old  peo 
ple  shook  their  heads  and  said :  "  It  will  be  April,  this 
year,  that  comes  in  like  a  lamb  and  goes  out  like  a  lion,"  — 
but  it  was  not  so.  Soft,  warm  showers  and  frostless  nights 
repaid  the  trustfulness  of  the  early-expanding  buds,  and 
May  came  clothed  completely  in  pale  green,  with  a  wreath 
of  lilac  and  hawthorn  bloom  on  her  brow.  For  twentr 
years  no  such  perfect  spring  had  been  known ;  and  for 
twenty  years  afterwards  the  farmers  looked  back  to  it  as  a 
standard  of  excellence,  whereby  to  measure  the  forward 
ness  of  their  crops. 

By  the  twentieth  of  April  the  young  white-oak  leaves 
were  the  size  of  a  squirrel's  ear,  —  the  old  Indian  sign  of 
the  proper  time  for  corn-planting,  which  was  still  accepted 
by  the  new  race,  and  the  first  of  May  saw  many  fields 
already  specked  with  the  green  points  of  the  springing 
blades.  A  warm,  silvery  vapor  hung  over  the-  land,  mel 
lowing  the  brief  vistas  of  the  interlacing  valleys,  touching 
with  a  sweeter  pastoral  beauty  the  irregular  alternation  of 
field  and  forest,  and  lifting  the  wooded  slopes,  far  and  near, 
to  a  statelier  and  more  imposing  height.  The  park-like 
region  of  Kennett,  settled  originally  by  emigrants  from 
Bucks  and  Warwickshire,  reproduced  to  their  eyes  —  as  it 
does  to  this  day  —  the  characteristics  of  their  original 
home,  and  they  transplanted  the  local  names  to  which  they 
were  accustomed,  and  preserved,  even  long  after  the  War 
of  Independence,  the  habits  of  their  rural  ancestry.  The 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  89 

massive  stone  farm-houses,  the  walled  gardens,  the  bounti 
ful  orchards,  and,  more  than  all,  the  well-trimmed  hedges 
of  hawthorn  and  blackthorn  dividing  their  fields,  or  bor 
dering  their  roads  with  the  living  wall,  over  which  the  cle 
matis  and  wild-ivy  love  to  clamber,  made  the  region  beauti 
ful  to  their  eyes.  Although  the  large  original  grants, 
mostly  given  by  the  hand  of  William  Penn,  had  been  di 
vided  and  subdivided  by  three  or  four  prolific  generations, 
there  was  still  enough  and  to  spare,  —  and  even  the  golden 
promise  held  out  by  "  the  Backwoods,"  as  the  new  States 
of  Ohio  and  Kentucky  were  then  called,  tempted  very  few 
to  leave  their  homes. 

The  people,  therefore,  loved  the  soil  and  clung  to  it  with 
a  fidelity  very  rare  in  any  part  of  our  restless  nation.  And, 
truly,  no  one  who  had  lived  through  the  mild  splendor  of 
that  spring,  seeing,  day  by  day,  the  visible  deepening  of 
the  soft  woodland  tints,  hearing  the  cheerful  sounds  of  la 
bor,  far  and  wide,  in  the  vapory  air,  and  feeling  at  once  the 
repose  and  the  beauty  of  such  a  quiet,  pastoral  life,  could 
have  turned  his  back  upon  it,  to  battle  with  the  inhospi 
table  wilderness  of  the  West.  Gilbert  Potter  had  had  ideas 
of  a  new  home,  to  be  created  by  himself,  and  a  life  to 
which  none  should  deny  honor  and  respect :  but  now  he 
gave  them  up  forever.  There  was  a  battle  to  be  fought  — 
better  here  than  elsewhere  —  here,  where  every  scene  was 
dear  and  familiar,  and  every  object  that  met  his  eye  gave  a 
mute,  gentle  sense  of  consolation. 

Restless,  yet  cheery  labor  was  now  the  order  of  life  on 
the  farm.  From  dawn  till  dusk,  Gilbert  and  Sam  were 
stirring  in  field,  meadow,  and  garden,  keeping  pace  with 
the '•season  and  forecasting  what  was  yet  to  come.  Sam, 
although  only  fifteen,  had  a  manly  pride  in  being  equal  to 
the  duty  imposed  upon  him  by  his  master's  absence,  and 
when  the  time  came  to  harness  the  wagon-team  once  more, 
the  mother  and  son  walked  over  the  fields  too-ether  and  re- 

C3 

joiced  in  the  order  and  promise  of  the  farm.     The  influ- 


90  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

ences  of  the  season  had  unconsciously  touched  them  both  : 
everything  conspired  to  favor  the  fulfilment  of  their  com 
mon  plan,  and,  as  one  went  forward  to  the  repetition  of  his 
tedious  journeys  back  and  forth  between  Columbia  and 
Newport,  and  the  other  to  her  lonely  labor  in  the  deserted 
farm-house,  the  arches  of  bells  over  the  collars  of  the  lead 
ers  chimed  at  once  to  the  ears  of  both,  an  anthem  of 
thanksgiving  and  a  melody  of  hope. 

So  May  and  the  beginning  of  June  passed  away,  and  no 
important  event  came  to  any  character  of  this  history. 
When  Gilbert  had  delivered  the  last  barrels  at  Newport, 
and  slowly  cheered  homewards  his  weary  team,  he  was 
nearly  two  hundred  dollars  richer  than  when  he  started, 
and  —  if  we  must  confess  a  universal  if  somewhat  humil 
iating  truth  —  so  much  the  more  a  man  in  courage  and  de 
termination. 

The  country  was  now  covered  with  the  first  fresh  mag 
nificence  of  summer.  The  snowy  pyramids  of  dog-wood 
bloom  had  faded,  but  the  tulip  trees  were  tall  cones  of 
rustling  green,  lighted  with  millions  of  orange-colored 
stars,  and  all  the  underwood  beneath  the  hemlock-forests 
by  the  courses  of  streams,  was  rosy  with  laurels  and  aza 
leas.  The  vernal-grass  in  the  meadows  was  sweeter  than 
any  garden-rose,  and  its  breath  met  that  of  the  wild-grape 
in  the  thickets  and  struggled  for  preeminence  of  sweet 
ness.  A  lush,  tropical  splendor  of  vegetation,  such  as 
England  never  knew,  heaped  the  woods  *and  hung  the 
road-side  with  sprays  which  grew  and  bloomed  and  wan 
toned,  as  if  growth  were  a  conscious  joy,  rather  than  blind 
obedience  to  a  law. 

When  Gilbert  reached  home,  released  from  his  labors 
abroad  until  October,  he  found  his  fields  awaiting  their 
owner's  hand.  His  wheat  hung  already  heavy-headed, 
though  green,  and  the  grass  stood  so  thick  and  strong  that 
it  suggested  the  ripping  music  of  the  scythe-blade  which 
should  lay  it  low.  Sam  had  taken  good  care  of  the  corn- 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  91 

field,  garden,  and  the  cattle,  and  Gilbert's  few  words  of 
quiet  commendation  were  a  rich  reward  for  all  his  anxiety. 
His  ambition  was,  to  be  counted  "a  full  hand,"" — this  was 
the  toga  virilis,  which,  once  entitled  to  wear,  would  make 
him  feel  that  he  was  any  man's  equal. 

Without  a  day's  rest,  the  labor  commenced  again,  and 
the  passion  of  Gilbert's  heart,  though  it  had  only  strength 
ened  during  his  absence,  must  be  thrust  aside  until  the  for 
tune  of  his  harvest  was  secured. 

In  the  midst  of  the  haying,  however,  came  a  message 
which  he  could  not  disregard,  —  a  hasty  summons  from 
Mark  Deane,  who,  seeing  Gilbert  in  the  upper  hill-field, 
called  from  the  road,  bidding  him  to  the  raising  of  Hallo- 
well's  new  barn,  which  was  to  take  place  on  the  following 
Saturday.  "  Be  sure  and  come ! "  were  Mark's  closing 
words  —  "  there  's  to  be  both  dinner  and  supper,  and  the 
girls  are  to  be  on  hand  ! " 

It  was  the  custom  to  prepare  the  complete  frame  of  a 
barn  —  sills,  plates,  girders,  posts,  and  stays  —  with  all 
their  mortices  and  pins,  ready  for  erection,  and  then  to 
summon  all  the  able-bodied  men  of  the  neighborhood  to 

O 

assist  in  getting  the  timbers  into  place.  This  sendee,  of 
course,  was  given  gratuitously,  and  the  farmer  who  received 
it  could  do  no  less  than  entertain,  after  the  bountiful  man 
ner  of  the  country,  his  helping  neighbors,  who  therefore, 
although  the  occasion  implied  a  certain  amount  of  hard 
work,  were  accustomed  to  regard  it  as  a  sort  of  holiday,  or 
merry-making.  Their  opportunities  for  recreation,  indeed, 
were  so  scanty,  that  a  barn-raising,  or  a  husking-party  by 
moonlight,  was  a  thing  to  be  welcomed. 

Hallowell's  farm  was  just  half-way  between  Gilbert's  and 
Kennett  Square,  and  the  site  of  the  bam  had  been  well- 
chosen  on  a  ridge,  across  the  road,  which  ran  between  it 
and  the  farm-house.  The  Hallowells  were  what  was  called 
"  good  providers,"  and  as  they  belonged  to  the  class  of  out 
side  Quakers,  which  we  have  already  described,  the  chances 


92  .    THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

were  that  both  music  and  dance  would  reward  the  labor  of 
the  day. 

Gilbert,  of  course,  could  not  refuse  the  invitation  of  so 
near  a  neighbor,  and  there  was  a  hope  in  his  heart  which 
made  it  welcome.  When  the  day  came  he  was  early  on 
hand,  heartily  greeted  by  Mark,  who  exclaimed,  — "  Give 
me  a  dozen  more  such  shoulders  and  arms  as  yours,  and 
I  '11  make  the  timbers  spin  !  " 

It  was  a  bright,  breezy  day,  making  the  wheat  roll  and 
the  leaves  twinkle.  Ranges  of  cumuli  moved,  one  after 
the  other,  like  heaps  of  silvery  wool,  across  the  keen,  dark 
blue  of  the  sky.  "  A  wonderful  hay-day,"  the  old  farmers 
remarked,  with  a  half-stifled  sense  of  regret;  but  the 
younger  men  had  already  stripped  themselves  to  their 
shirts  and  knee-breeches,  and  set  to  work  with  a  hearty 
good-will.  Mark,  as  friend,  half-host  and  commander, 
bore  his  triple  responsibility  with  a  mixture  of  dash  and 
decision,  which  became  his  large  frame  and  ruddy,  laugh 
ing  face.  It  was  —  really,  and  not  in  an  oratorical  sense, 
—  the  proudest  day  of  his  life. 

There  could  be  no  finer  sight  than  that  of  these  lithe, 
vigorous  specimens  of  a  free,  uncorrupted  manhood,  taking 
like  sport  the  rude  labor  which  was  at  once  their  destiny 
and  their  guard  of  safety  against  the  assaults  of  the  senses. 
As  they  bent  to  their  work,  prying,  rolling,  and  lifting 
the  huge  sills  to  their  places  on  the  foundation-wall,  they 
showed  in  every  movement  the  firm  yet  elastic  action  of 
muscles  equal  to  their  task.  Though  Hallo  well's  barn  did 
not  rise,  like  the  walls  of  Ilium,  to  music,  a  fine  human 
harmony  aided  in  its  construction. 

There  was  a  plentiful  supply  of  whiskey  on  hand,  but 
Mark  Deane  assumed  the  charge  of  it,  resolved  that  no 
accident  or  other  disturbance  should  mar  the  success  of 
this,  his  first  raising.  Everything  went  well,  and  by  the 
time  they  were  summoned  to  dinner,  the  sills  and  some  of 
the  uprights  were  in  place,  properly  squared  and  tied. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  93 

It  would  require  a  Homeric  catalogue  to  describe  the 
dinner.  To  say  that  the  table  "  groaned,"  is  to  give  no 
idea  of  its  condition.  Mrs.  Hallowell  and  six  neighbors' 
wives  moved  from  kitchen  to  dining-room,  replenishing 
the  dishes  as  fast  as  their  contents  diminished,  and  plying 
the  double  row  of  coatless  guests  with  a  most  stern  and 
exacting  hospitality.  The  former  would  have  been  seri 
ously  mortified  had  not  each  man  endeavored  to  eat  twice 
his  usual  requirement. 

After  the  slight  rest  which  nature  enforced  —  though 
far  less  than  nature  demanded,  after  such  a  meal  —  the 
work  went  on  again  with  greater  alacrity,  since  every  tim 
ber  showed.  Rib  by  rib  the  great  frame  grew,  and  those 
perched  aloft,  pinning  the  posts  and  stays,  rejoiced  in  the 
broad,  bright  landscape  opened  to  their  view.  They 
watched  the  roads,  in  the  intervals  of  their  toil,  and  an 
nounced  the  approach  of  delayed  guests,  all  alert  for  the 
sight  of  the  first  riding-habit. 

Suddenly  two  ladies  made  their  appearance,  over  the 
rise  of  the  hill,  one  cantering  lightly  and  securely,  the  other 
bouncing  in  her  seat,  from  the  rough  trot  of  her  horse. 

"  Look  out !  there  they  come  !  "  cried  a  watcher. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  was  asked  from  below. 

"  TYliere  's  Barton  ?  He  ought  to  be  on  hand,  —  it 's 
Martha  Deane,  — •  and  Sally  with  her ;  they  always  ride 
together." 

Gilbert  had  one  end  of  a  handspike,  helping  lift  a  heavy 
piece  of  timber,  and  his  face  was  dark  with  the  strain  ;  it 
was  well  that  he  dared  not  let  go  until  the  lively  gossip 
which  followed  Barton's  absence,  —  the  latter  having  im 
mediately  gone  forward  to  take  charge  of  the  horses, — 
had  subsided.  Leaning  on  the  handspike,  he  panted,  — 
not  entirely  from  fatigue.  A  terrible  possibility  of  loss 
flashed  suddenly  across  his  mind,  revealing  to  him,  in  a 
new  light,  the  desperate  force  and  desire  of  his  love. 

There  was  no  time  for  meditation ;  his  help  was  again 


94  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

wanted,  and  he  expended  therein  the  first  hot  tumult  of 
his  heart.  By  ones  and  twos  the  girls  now  gathered  rap 
idly,  and  erelong  they  came  out  in  a  body  to  have  a  look 
at  the  raising.  Their  coming  in  no  wise  interrupted  the 
labor ;  it  was  rather  an  additional  stimulus,  and  the  young 
men  were  right.  Although  they  were  not  aware  of  the 
fact,  they  were  never  so  handsome  in  their  uneasy  Sunday 
costume  and  awkward  social  ways,  as  thus  in  their  free, 
joyous,'  and  graceful  element  of  labor.  Greetings  were 
interchanged,  laughter  and  cheerful  nothings  animated 
the  company,  and  when  Martha  Deane  said,  — 

"  We  may  be  in  the  way,  now  —  shall  we  go  in  ?  " 

Mark  responded,  — 

"  No,  Martha !  No,  girls  !  I  '11  get  twice  as  much  work 
out  o'  my  twenty-five  'jours,'  if  you  '11  only  stand  where 
you  are  and  look  at  'em." 

"  Indeed  !  "  Sally  Fairthorn  exclaimed.  "  But  we  have 
work  to  do  as  well  as  you.  If  you  men  can't  get  along 
without  admiring  spectators,  we  girls  can." 

The  answer  which  Mark  would  have  made  to  this  pert 
speech  was  cut  short  by  a  loud  ery  of  pain  or  terror  from 
the  old  half-dismantled  barn  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
All  eyes  were  at  once  turned  in  that  direction,  and  beheld 
Joe  Fairthorn  rushing  at  full  speed  down  the  bank,  making 
for  the  stables  below.  Mark,  Gilbert  Potter,  and  Sally, 
being  nearest,  hastened  to  the  spot. 

"  You  're  in  time  ! "  cried  Joe,  clapping  his  hands  in 
great  glee.  "  I  was  awfully  afeard  he  'd  let  go  before  I 
could  git  down  to  see  him  fall.  Look  quick  —  he  can't 
hold  on  much  longer  !  " 

Looking  into  the  dusky  depths,  they  saw  Jake,  hanging 
by  his  hands  to  the  edges  of  a  hole  in  the  floor  above,  yell 
ing  and  kicking  for  dear  life. 

"  You  wicked,  wicked  boy  !  "  exclaimed  Sally,  turning  to 
Joe,  "  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Oh/'  he  answered,  jerking  and  twisting  with  fearful 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  95 

delight,  "  there  was  such  a  nice  hole  in  the  floor  !  I  cov 
ered  it  all  over  with  straw,  but  I  had  to  wait  ever  so  long 
before  Jake  stepped  onto  it,  and  then  he  ketched  hold 
goin'  down,  and  nigh  spoilt  the  fun." 

Gilbert  made  for  the  barn-floor,  to  succor  the  helpless 
victim  ;  but  just  as  his  step  was  heard  on  the  boards,  Jake's 
strength  gave  way.  His  fingers  slipped,  and  with  a  last 
howl  down  he  dropped,  eight  or  ten  feet,  upon  a  bed  of 
dry  manure.  Then  his  terror  was  instantly  changed  to 
wrath  ;  he  bounced  upon  his  feet,  seized  a  piece  of  rotten 
board,  and  made  after  Joe,  who,  anticipating  the  result, 
was  already  showing  his  heels  down  the  road. 

Meanwhile  the  other  young  ladies  had  followed,  and 
so,  after  discussing  the  incident  with  a  mixture  of  amuse 
ment  and  horror,  they  betook  themselves  to  the  house,  tc 
assist  in  the  preparations  for  supper.  Martha  Deane's 
eyes  took  in  the  situation,  and  immediately  perceived  that 
it  was  capable  of  a  picturesque  improvement.  In  front  of 
the  house  stood  a  superb  sycamore,  beyond  which  a  trellis 
of  grape-vines  divided  the  yard  from  the  kitchen-garden. 
Here,  on  the  cool  green  turf,  under  shade,  in  the  bright 
summer  air,  she  proposed  that  the  tables  should  be  set, 
and  found  little  difficulty  in  carrying  her  point.  It  was 
quite  convenient  to  the  outer  kitchen  door,  and  her  ready 
invention  found  means  of  overcoming  all  other  technical 
objections.  Erelong  the  tables  were  transported  to  the 
spot,  the  cloth  laid,  and  the  aspect  of  the  coming  entertain 
ment  grew  so  pleasant  to  the  eye,  that  there  was  a  special 
satisfaction  in  the  labor. 

An  hour  before  sundown  the  frame  was  completed  ;  the 
skeleton  of  the  great  barn  rose  sharp  against  the  sky,  its 
fresh  white-oak  timber  gilded  by  the  sunshine.  Mark 
drove  in  the  last  pin,  gave  a  joyous  shout,  which  was  an 
swered  by  an  irregular  cheer  from  below,  and  lightly  clam 
bered  down  by  one  of  the  stays.  Then  the  black  jugs 
were  produced,  and  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  the 


96  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

ruddy,  glowing  young  fellows  drew  their  shirt  -  sleeves 
across  their  faces,  and  breathed  the  free,  full  breath  of 
rest. 

Gilbert  Potter,  sitting  beside  Mark,  —  the  two  were 
mutually  drawn  towards  each  other,  without  knowing  or 
considering  why,  —  had  gradually  worked  himself  into  a 
resolution  to  be  cool,  and  to  watch  the  movements  of  his 
presumed  rival.  More  than  once,  during  the  afternoon, 
he  had  detected  Barton's  eyes,  fixed  upon  him  with  a  more 
than  accidental  interest ;  looking  up  now,  he  met  them 
again,  but  they  were  quickly  withdrawn,  with  a  shy,  uneasy 
expression,  which  he  could  not  comprehend.  "Was  it  pos 
sible  that  Barton  conjectured  the  carefully  hidden  secret 
of  his  heart  ?  Or  had  the  country  gossip  been  free  with 
his  name,  in  some  way,  during  his  absence  ?  Whatever  it 
was,  the  dearer  interests  at  stake  prevented  him  from  dis 
missing  it  from  his  mind.  He  was  preternaturally  alert, 
suspicious,  and  sensitive. 

He  was  therefore  a  little  startled,  when,  as  they  were  all 
rising  in  obedience  to  Farmer  HallowelFs  summons  to 
supper,  Barton  suddenly  took  hold  of  his  arm. 

"  Gilbert,"  said  he,  "  we  want  your  name  in  a  list  of 
young  men  we  are  getting  together,  for  the  protection  of 
our  neighborhood.  There  are  suspicions,  you  know,  that 
Sandy  Flash  has  some  friends  hereabouts,  though  nobody 
seems  to  know  exactly  who  they  are  ;  and  our  only  safety 
is  in  clubbing  together,  to  smoke  him  out  and  hunt  him 
down,  if  he  ever  comes  near  us.  Now,  you're  a  good 
hunter  "  — 

"  Put  me  down,  of  course ! "  Gilbert  interrupted,  im 
mensely  relieved  to  find  how  wide  his  suspicions  had 
fallen  from  the  mark.  "  That  would  be  a  more  stirring 
chase  than  our  last ;  it  is  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  that  he 
is  still  at  large." 

"  How  many  have  we  now  ? "  asked  Mark,  who  was 
walking  on  the  other  side  of  Barton. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  97 

"  Twenty-one,  with  Gilbert,"  the  latter  replied. 

"  Well,  as  Sandy  is  said  to  count  equal  to  twenty,  we  can 
meet  him  evenly,  and  have  one  to  spare,"  laughed  Mark. 

"  Has  any  one  here  ever  seen  the  fellow  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 
"  We  ought  to  know  his  marks." 

"  He  's  short,  thick-set,  with  a  red  face,  jet-black  hair, 
and  heavy  whiskers,"  said  Barton. 

"  Jet-black  hair  !  "  Mark  exclaimed  ;  "  why,  it 's  red  as 
brick-dust !  And  I  never  heard  that  he  wore  whiskers." 

"Pshaw  !  what  was  I  thinking  of?  Bed,  of  course  — I 
meant  red,  all  the  time,"  Barton  hastily  assented,  inwardly 
cursing  himself  for  a  fool.  It  was  evident  that  the  less  he 
conversed  about  Sandy  Flash,  the  better. 

Loud  exclamations  of  surprise  and  admiration  inter 
rupted  them.  In  the  shade  of  the  sycamore,  on  the  bright 
green  floor  of  the  silken  turf,  stood  the  long  supper-table, 
snowily  draped,  and  heaped  with  the  richest  products  of 
cellar,  kitchen,  and  dairy.  Twelve  chickens,  stewed  in 
cream,  filled  huge  dishes  at  the  head  and  foot,  while  hams 
and  rounds  of  cold  roast-beef  accentuated  the  space  be 
tween.  The  interstices  were  filled  with  pickles,  pies,  jars 
of  marmalade,  bowls  of  honey,  and  plates  of  cheese.  Four 
coffee-pots  steamed  in  readiness  on  a  separate  table,  and 
the  young  ladies,  doubly  charming  in  their  fresh  white 
aprons,  stood  waiting  to  serve  the  tired  laborers.  Clumps 
of  crown-roses,  in  blossom,  peered  over  the  garden-paling, 
the  woodbine  filled  the  air  with  its  nutmeg  odors,  ancl  a 
broad  sheet  of  sunshine  struck  the  upper  boughs  of  the 
arching  sycamore,  and  turned  them  into  a  gilded  canopy 
for  the  banquet.  It  might  have  been  truly  said  of  Martha 
Deane,  thaj;  she  touched  nothing  which  she  did  not  adorn. 

In  the  midst  of  her  duties  as  directress  of  the  festival, 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  three  men,  as  they  approached 
together,  somewhat  in  the  rear  of  the  others.  The  em 
barrassed  flush  had  not  quite  faded  from  Barton's  face, 
and  Gilbert's  was  touched  by  a  lingering  sign  of  his  new 


98  THE   STORY   OF   KENXETT. 

trouble.  Mark,  light-hearted  and  laughing,  precluded  the 
least  idea  of  mystery,  but  Gilbert's  eye  met  hers  with  what 
she  felt  to  be  a  painfully  earnest,  questioning  expression. 
The  next  moment  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  and  her 
services  were  required  on  behalf  of  all. 

Unfortunately  for  the  social  enjoyments  of  Kennett, 
eating  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  part  of  labor ;  silence 
and  rapidity  were  its  principal  features.  Board  and  plat 
ter  were  cleared  in  a  marvellously  short  time,  the  plates 
changed,  the  dishes  replenished,  and  then  the  wives  and 
maidens  took  the  places  of  the  young  men,  who  lounged 
off  to  the  road-side,  some  to  smoke  their  pipes,  and  all  to 
gossip. 

Before  dusk,  Giles  made  his  appearance,  with  an  old 
green  bag  under  his  arm.  Barton,  of  course,  had  the 
credit  of  this  arrangement,  and  it  made  him,  for  the  time, 
very  popular.  After  a  pull  at  the  bottle,  Giles  began  to 
screw  his  fiddle,  drawing  now  and  then  unearthly  shrieks 
from  its  strings.  The  more  eager  of  the  young  men  there 
upon  stole  to  the  house,  assisted  in  carrying  in  the  tables 
and  benches,  and  in  other  ways  busied  themselves  to  bring 
about  the  moment  when  the  aprons  of  the  maidens  could 
be  laid  aside,  and  their  lively  feet  given  to  the  dance.  The 
moon  already  hung  over  the  eastern  wood,  and  a  light 
breeze  blew  the  dew-mist  from  the  hill. 

Finally,  they  were  all  gathered  on  the  open  bit  of  lawn 
between  the  house  and  the  road.  There  was  much  hesi 
tation  at  first,  ardent  coaxing  and  bashful  withdrawal,  until 
Martha  broke  the  ice  by  boldly  choosing  Mark  as  her 
partner,  apportioning  Sally  to  Gilbert,  and  taking  her 
place  for  a  Scotch  reel.  She  danced  well  and  lightly, 
though  in  a  more  subdued  manner  than  was  then  custom 
ary.  In  this  respect,  Gilbert  resembled  her;  his  steps, 
gravely  measured,  though  sufficiently  elastic,  differed  widely 
from  Mark's  springs,  pigeon-wings,  and  curvets.  Giles 
played  with  a  will,  swaying  head  and  fiddle  up  and  down, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  99 

and  beating  time  with  his  foot ;  and  the  reel  went  off  so 
successfully  that  there  was  no  hesitation  in  getting  up  the 
next  dance. 

Mark  was  alert,  and  secured  Sally  this  time.  Perhaps 
Gilbert  would  have  made  the  like  exchange,  but  Mr. 
Alfred  Barton  stepped  before  him,  and  bore  off  Martha, 
There  was  no  appearance  of  design  about  the  matter,  but 
Gilbert  felt  a  hot  tingle  in  his  blood,  and  drew  back  a  little 
to  watch  the  pair.  Martha  moved  through  the  dance  as 
if  but  half  conscious  of  her  partner's  presence,  and  he 
seemed  more  intent  on  making  the  proper  steps  and  flour 
ishes  than  on  improving  the  few  brief  chances  for  a  confi 
dential  word.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with  the  unnecessary 
laugh,  which  is  meant  to  show  ease  of  manner,  and  betrays 
the  want  of  it.  Gilbert  was  puzzled ;  either  the  two  were 
unconscious  of  the  gossip  which  linked  their  names  so  in 
timately,  (which  seemed  scarcely  possible,)  or  they  were 
studiedly  concealing  an  actual  tender  relation.  Among 
those  simple-hearted  people,  the  shyness  of  love  rivalled 
the  secrecy  of  crime,  and  the  ways  by  which  the  lover 
sought  to  assure  himself  of  his  fortune  were  made  very 
difficult  by  the  shrinking  caution  with  which  he  concealed 
the  evidence  of  his  passion.  Gilbert  knew  how  well  the 
secret  of  his  own  heart  was  guarded,  and  the  reflection, 
that  others  might  be  equally  inscrutable,  smote  him  with 
sudden  pain. 

The  figures  moved  before  him  in  the  splendid  moonlight, 
and  with  every  motion  of  Martha's  slender  form  the  glow 
of  his  passion  and  the  torment  of  his  uncertainty  increased. 
Then  the  dance  dissolved,  and  while  he  still  stood  with 
folded  arms,  Sally  Fairthorn's  voice  whispered  eagerly  in 
his  ear, — 

"  Gilbert  —  Gilbert !  now  is  your  chance  to  engage 
Martha  for  the  Virginia  reel ! " 

"  Let  me  choose  my  own  partners,  Sally ! "  he  said,  so 
sternly,  that  she  opened  wide  her  black  eyes. 


100  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Martha,  fanning  herself  with  her  handkerchief  spread 
over  a  bent  willow-twig,  suddenly  passed  before  him,  like 
an  angel  in  the  moonlight.  A  soft,  tender  star  sparkled 
in  each  shaded  eye,  a  faint  rose-tint  flushed  her  cheeks, 
and  her  lips,  slightly  parted  to  inhale  the  clover-scented 
air,  were  touched  with  a  sweet,  consenting  smile. 

"  Martha ! " 

The  word  passed  Gilbert's  lips  almost  before  he  knew 
he  had  uttered  it.  Almost  a  whisper,  but  she  heard,  and, 
pausing,  turned  towards  him. 

"  Will  you  dance  with  me  now  ?  " 

"  Am  I  your  choice,  or  Sally's,  Gilbert  ?  I  overheard 
your  very  independent  remark." 

"  Mine  ! "  he  said,  with  only  half  truth.  A  deep  color 
shot  into  his  face,  and  he  knew  the  moonlight  revealed  it, 
but  he  forced  his  eyes  to  meet  hers.  Her  face  lost  its 
playful  expression,  and  she  said,  gently, — 

"  Then  I  accept." 

They  took  their  places,  and  the  interminable  Virginia 
reel  —  under  which  name  the  old-fashioned  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  was  known  —  commenced.  It  so  happened  that 
Gilbert  and  Mr.  Alfred  Barton  had  changed  their  recent 
places.  The  latter  stood  outside  the  space  allotted  to  the 
dance,  and  appeared  to  watch  Martha  Deane  and  her  new 
partner.  The  reviving  warmth  in  Gilbert's  bosom  instantly 
died,  and  gave  way  to  a  crowd  of  torturing  conjectures. 
He  went  through  his  part  in  the  dance  so  abstractedly, 
that  when  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  line,  Martha, 
out  of  friendly  consideration  for  him,  professed  fatigue  and 
asked  his  permission  to  withdraw  from  the  company.  He 
gave  her  his  arm,  and  they  moved  to  one  of  the  benches. 

"  You,  also,  seem  tired,  Gilbert,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  —  no  !  "  he  answered,  confusedly,  feeling  that  he 
was  beginning  to  tremble.  He  stood  before  her  as  she 

O  O 

sat,  moved  irresolutely,  as  if  to  leave,  and  then,  facing  her 
with  a  powerful  effort,  he  exclaimed,  — 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  101 

"Martha,  do  you  know  what  people  say  about  Alfred 
Barton  and  yourself  ?  " 

"  It  would  make  no  difference  if  I  did,"  she  answered ; 
"  people  will  say  anything." 

"  But  is  it  —  is  it  true  ?  " 

"  Is  what  true  ?  "  she  quietly  asked. 

"  That  he  is  to  marry  you  !  "  The  words  were  said,  and 
he  would  have  given  his  life  to  recall  them.  He  dropped 
his  head,  not  daring  to  meet  her  eyes. 

Martha  Deane  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before  him. 
Then  he  lifted  his  head ;  the  moon  shone  full  upon  it, 
while  her  face  was  in  shadow,  but  he  saw  the  fuller  light 
of  her  eye,  the  firmer  curve  of  her  lip. 

"  Gilbert  Potter,"  she  said,  "  what  right  have  you  to  ask 
me  such  a  question  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  right  —  none,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice 
whose  suppressed,  husky  tones  were  not  needed  to  inter 
pret  the  pain  and  bitterness  of  his  face.  Then  he  quickly 
turned  away  and  left  her. 

Martha  Deane  remained  a  minute,  motionless,  standing 
as  he  left  her.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast,  and  she  could 
not  immediately  trust  herself  to  rejoin  the  gay  company. 
But  now  the  dance  was  over,  and  the  inseparable  Sally 
hastened  forward. 

"  Martha  !  "  cried  the  latter,  hot  and  indignant,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  Gilbert  ?  He  is  behaving  shamefully  ; 
I  saw  him  just  now  turn  away  from  you  as  if  you  were  a  — 
a  shock  of  corn.  And  the  way  he  snapped  me  up  —  it  is 
really  outrageous  !  " 

"  It  seems  so,  truly,"  said  Martha.  But  she  knew  that 
Gilbert  Potter  loved  her,  and  with  what  a  love. 


102  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    RIVALS. 

WITH  the  abundant  harvest  of  that  year,  and  the  sud 
den  and  universal  need  of  extra  labor  for  a  fortnight,  Gil 
bert  Potter  would  have  found  his  burden  too  heavy,  but 
for  welcome  help  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  On  the 
very  morning  that  he  first  thrust  his  sickle  into  the  ripened 
wheat,  Deb  Smith  made  her  appearance,  in  a  short-armed 
chemise  and  skirt  of  tow-cloth. 

"  I  knowed  ye  'd  want  a  hand,"  she  said,  "  without  sendin' 
to  ask.  I  '11  reap  ag'inst  the  best  man  in  Chester  County, 
and  you  won't  begrudge  me  my  bushel  o'  wheat  a  day,  when 
the  harvest 's  in." 

With  this  exordium,  and  a  pull  at  the  black  jug  under 
the  elder-bushes  in  the  fence-corner,  she  took  her  sickle 
and  bent  to  work.  It  was  her  boast  that  she  could  beat 
both  men  and  women  on  their  own  ground.  She  had  spun 
her  twenty-four  cuts  of  yarn,  in  a  day,  and  husked  her  fifty 
shocks  of  heavy  corn.  For  Gilbert  she  did  her  best, 
amazing  him  each  day  with  a  fresh  performance,  and  was 
well  worth  the  additional  daily  quart  of  whiskey  which  she 
consumed. 

In  this  pressing,  sweltering  labor,  Gilbert  dulled,  though 
he  could  not  conquer,  his  unhappy  mood.  Mary  Potter, 
with  a  true  mother's  instinct,  surmised  a  trouble,  but  the 
indications  were  too  indefinite  for  conjecture.  She  could 
only  hope  that  her  son  had  not  been  called  upon  to  suffer  a 
fresh  reproach,  from  the  unremoved  stain  hanging  over  his 
birth. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  103 

Miss  Betsy  Lavender's  company  at  this  time  was  her 
greatest  relief,  in  a  double  sense.  No  ten  persons  in  Ken- 
nett  possessed  half  the  amount  of  confidences  which  were 
intrusted  to  this  single  lady ;  there  was  that  in  her  face 
which  said  :  "  I  only  blab  what  I  choose,  and  what 's  locked 
up,  is  locked  up."  This  was  true  ;  she  was  the  greatest 
distributor  of  news,  and  the  closest  receptacle  of  secrets  — 
anomalous  as  the  two  characters  may  seem — that  ever 
blessed  a  country  community. 

Miss  Betsy,  like  Deb  Smith,  knew  that  she  could  be  of 
service  on  the  Potter  farm,  and,  although  her  stay  was 
perforce  short,  on  account  of  an  approaching  house-warm 
ing  near  Doe* Run,  her  willing  arms  helped  to  tide  Mary 
Potter  over  the  heaviest  labor  of  harvest.  There  were 
thus  hours  of  afternoon  rest,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  busy 
season,  and  during  one  of  these  the  mother  opened  her 
heart  in  relation  to  her  son's  silent,  gloomy  moods. 

"  You  '11  perhaps  say  it 's  all  my  fancy,  Betsy,"  she  said, 
"  and  indeed  I  hope  it  is  ;  but  I  know  you  see  more  than 
most  people,  and  two  heads  are  better  than  one.  How 
does  Gilbert  seem  to  you  ?  " 

Miss  Betsy  mused  awhile,  with  an  unusual  gravity  on 
her  long  face.  "  I  dunno,"  she  remarked,  at  length ;  "  I  've 
noticed  that  some  men  have  their  vapors  and  tantrums,  jist 
as  some  women  have,  and  Gilbert 's  of  an  age  to  —  well, 
Mary,  has  the  thought  of  his  marryin'  ever  come  into  your 
head?" 

"  No !  "  exclaimed  Mary  Potter,  with  almost  a  frightened 
air. 

"  I  '11  be  bound !  Some  women  are  lookin'  out  for 
daughter-in-laws  before  their  sons  have  a  beard,  and  others 
think  theirs  is  only  fit  to  wear  short  jackets  when  they 
ought  to  be  raisin'  up  families.  I  dunno  but  what  it  '11  be 
a  cross  to  you,  Mary,  —  you  set  so  much  store  by  Gilbert, 
and  it 's  natural,  like,  that  you  should  want  to  have  him  all 
to  y'rself,  —  but  a  man  shall  leave  his  father  and  mother 


104  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

and  cleave  unto  his  wife,  —  or  somethin'  like  it.  Yes,  I 
say  it,  although  nobody  clove  unto  me." 

Mary  Potter  said  nothing.  Her  face  grew  very  pale, 
and  such  an  expression  of  pain  came  into  it  that  Miss 
Betsy,  who  saw  everything  without  seeming  to  look  at  any 
thing,  made  haste  to  add  a  consoling  word. 

"  Indeed,  Mary,"  she  said,  "  now  I  come  to  consider  upon 
it,  you  won't  have  so  much  of  a  cross.  You  a'n't  the 
mother  you  've  showed  yourself  to  be,  if  you  're  not  anx 
ious  to  see  Gilbert  happy,  and  as  for  leavin'  his  mother, 
there  '11  be  no  leavin'  needful,  in  his  case,  but  on  the  con 
trary,  quite  the  reverse,  namely,  a  comin'  to  you.  And  it 's 
no  bad  fortin',  though  I  can't  say  it  of  my  own  experience ; 
but  never  mind,  all  the  same,  I  've  seen  the  likes  —  to 
have  a  brisk,  cheerful  daughter-in-law  keepin'  house,  and 
you  a-settin'  by  the  window,  knittin'  and  restin'  from  morn- 
in'  till  night,  and  maybe  little  caps  and  clothes  to  make, 
and  lots  o'  things  to  teach,  that  young  wives  don't  know 
o'  theirselves.  And  then,  after  awhile  you  '11  be  called 
'  Granny,'  but  you  won't  mind  it,  for  grandchildren  's  a 
mighty  comfort,  and  no  responsibility  like  your  own.  Why, 
I  've  knowed  women  that  never  seen  what  rest  or  comfort 
was,  till  they  'd  got  to  be  grandmothers !  " 

Something  in  this  homely  speech  touched  Mary  Potter's 
heart,  and  gave  her  the  relief  of  tears.  "  Betsy,"  she  said 
at  last,  "  I  have  had  a  heavy  burden  to  bear,  and  it  has 
made  me  weak." 

"  Made  me  weak,"  Miss  Betsy  repeated.  "  And  no  won 
der.  Don't  think  I  can't  guess  that,  Mary." 

Here  two  tears  trickled  down  the  ridge  of  her  nose,  and 
she  furtively  wiped  them  oif  while  adjusting  her  high  comb. 
Mary  Potter's  face  was  turned  towards  her  with  a  wistful, 
appealing  expression,  which  she  understood. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  measure  people  with  a  two- 
foot  rule.  I  take  a  ten-foot  pole,  and  let  it  cover  all  that 
comes  under  it.  Them  that  does  their  dooty  to  Man,  I 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  105 

guess  won't  have  much  trouble  in  squarin'  accounts  with 
the  Lord.  You  know  how  I  feel  towards  you  without  my 
tellin'  of  it  and  them  that  's  quick  o'  the  tongue  a'n't 
always  full  o'  the  heart.  Now,  Mary,  I  know  as  plain  as 
if  you  'd  said  it,  that  there  's  somethin'  on  your  mind,  and 
you  dunno  whether  to  share  it  with  me  or  not.  What  I 
say  is,  don't  hurry  yourself;  I  'd  rather  show  fellow-feelin' 
than  cur'osity ;  so,  see  your  way  clear  first,  and  when  the 
tellin'  me  anything  can  help,  tell  it  —  not;  before." 

"  It  would  n't  help  now,"  Mary  Potter  responded. 

"  Would  n't  help  now.  Then  wait  awhile.  Nothin'  's 
so, dangerous  as  speakin'  before  the  time,  whomsoever  and 
wheresoever.  Folks  talk  o'  bridlin'  the  tongue ;  let  'em 
git  a  blind  halter,  say  I,  and  a  curb-bit,  and  a  martingale  ! 
Not  that  I  set  an  example,  Goodness  knows,  for  mine  runs 
like  a  mill-clapper,  rickety-rick,  rickety-rick;  but  never 
mind,  it  may  be  fast,  but  it  is  n't  loose  !  " 

In  her  own  mysterious  way.  Miss  Betsy  succeeded  in 
imparting  a  good  deal  of  comfort  to  Mary  Potter.  She 
promised  "  to  keep  Gilbert  under  her  eyes,"  —  which,  in 
deed,  she  did,  quite  unconsciously  to  himself,  during  the 
last  two  days  of  her  stay.  At  table  she  engaged  him  in 
conversation,  bringing  in  references,  in  the  most  wonder 
fully  innocent  and  random  manner,  to  most  of  the  families 
in  the  neighborhood.  So  skilfully  did  she  operate  that 
even  Mary  Potter  failed  to  perceive  her  strategy.  Deb 
Smith,  sitting  bare-armed  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
and  eating  like  six  dragoons,  was  the  ostensible  target  of 
her  speech,  and  Gilbert  was  thus  stealthily  approached  in 
flank.  When  she  tied  her  bonnet-strings  to  leave,  and  the 
mother  accompanied  her  to  the  gate,  she  left  this  indefinite 
consolation  behind  her : 

"  Keep  up  your  sperrits,  Mary.  I  think  I  'm  on  the 
right  scent  about  Gilbert,  but  these  young  men  are  shy 
foxes.  Let  me  alone,  awhile  yet,  and  whatever  you  do,  let 
him  alone.  There  's  no  danger  —  not  even  a  snarl,  I 


106  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

guess.  Nothin'  to  bother  your  head  about,  if  you  were  n't 
his  mother.  Good  lack  !  if  I  'm  right,  you  '11  see  no  more 
o'  his  tantrums  in  two  months'  time  —  and  so,  good-bye  to 
you ! " 

The  oats  followed  close  upon  the  wheat  harvest,  and 
there  was  no  respite  from  labor  until  the  last  load  was 
hauled  into  the  barn,  filling  its  ample  bays  to  the  very 
rafters.  Then  Gilbert,  mounted  on  his  favorite  Roger, 
rode  up  to  Kennett  Square  one  Saturday  afternoon,  in  obe 
dience  to  a  message  from  Mr.  Alfred  Barton,  informing 
him  that  the  other  gentlemen  would  there  meet  to  consult 
measures  for  mutual  protection  against  highwaymen  in 
general  and  Sandy  Flash  in  particular.  As  every  young 
man  in  the  neighborhood  owned  his  horse  and  musket, 
nothing  more  was  necessary  than  to  adopt  a  system  of 
action. 

The  meeting  was  held  in  the  bar-room  of  the  Unicorn, 
and  as  every  second  man  had  his  own  particular  scheme  to 
advocate,  it  was  both  long  and  noisy.  Many  thought  the 
action  unnecessary,  but  were  willing,  for  the  sake  of  the 
community,  to  give  their  services.  The  simplest  plan  —  to 
choose  a  competent  leader,  and  submit  to  his  management 
— never  occurred  to  these  free  and  independent  volunteers, 
until  all  other  means  of  unity  had  failed.  Then  Alfred 
Barton,  as  the  originator  of  the  measure,  was  chosen, 
and  presented  the  rude  but  sufficient  plan  which  had 
been  suggested  to  him  by  Dr.  Deane.  The  men  were  to 
meet  every  Saturday  evening  at  the  Unicorn,  and  exchange 
intelligence  ;  but  they  could  be  called  together  at  any  time 
by  a  summons  from  Barton.  The  landlord  of  the  Unicorn 
was  highly  satisfied  with  this  arrangement,  but  no  one  no 
ticed  the  interest  with  which  the  ostler,  an  Irishman  named 
Dougherty,  listened  to  the  discussion. 

Barton's  horse  was  hitched  beside  Gilbert's,  and  as  the 
two  were  mounting,  the  former  said,  — 

"  If  you  're  going  home,  Gilbert,  why  not  come  down 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  107 

our  lane,  and  go  through  by  Carson's.  We  can  talk  the 
matter  over  a  little ;  if  there  's  any  running  to  do,  I  de 
pend  a  good  deal  on  your  horse." 

Gilbert  saw  no  reason  for  declining  this  invitation,  and 
the  two  rode  side  by  side  down  the  lane  to  the  Barton 
farm-house.  The  sun  was  still  an  hour  high,  but  a  fragrant 
odor  of  broiled  herring  drifted  out  of  the  open  kitchen- 
window.  Barton  thereupon  urged  him  to  stop  and  take 
supper,  with  a  cordiality  which  we  can  only  explain  by 
hinting  at  his  secret  intention  to  become  the  purchaser  of 
Gilbert's  horse. 

"  Old-man  Barton "  was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair  by  the 
window,  feebly  brandishing  his  stick  at  the  flies,  and  watch 
ing  his  daughter  Ann,  as  she  transferred  the  herrings  from 
the  gridiron  to  a  pewter  platter. 

"  Father,  this  is  Gilbert  Potter,"  said  Mr.  Alfred,  intro 
ducing  his  guest. 

The  bent  head  was  lifted  with  an  effort,  and  the  keen 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  young  man,  who  came  forward  to 
take  the  crooked,  half-extended  hand. 

"  What  Gilbert  Potter  ?  "  he  croaked. 

Mr.  Alfred  bit  his  lips,  and  looked  both  embarrassed  and 
annoyed.  But  he  could  do  no  less  than  say,  — 

"  Mary  Potter's  son." 

Gilbert  straightened  himself  proudly,  as  if  to  face  a 
coming  insult.  After  a  long,  steady  gaze,  the  old  man  gave 
one  of  his  hieroglyphic  snorts,  and  then  muttered  to  him 
self,  —  "  Looks  like  her." 

During  the  meal,  he  was  so  occupied  with  the  labor  of 
feeding  himself,  that  he  seemed  to  forget  Gilbert's  pres 
ence.  Bending  his  head  sideways,  from  time  to  time,  he 
jerked  out  a  croaking  question,  which  his  son,  whatever 
annoyance  he  might  feel,  was  forced  to  answer  according 
to  the  old  man's  humor. 

"  In  at  the  Doctor's,  boy  ?  " 

"  A  few  minutes,  daddy,  before  we  came  together." 


108  THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT. 

"  See  her  ?     Was  she  at  home  ?  " 

"Yes,"  came  very  shortly  from  Mr.  Alfred's  lips;  he 
clenched  his  fists  under  the  table-cloth. 

"  That 's  right,  boy ;  stick  up  to  her ! "  and  he  chuckled 
and  munched  together  in  a  way  which  it  made  Gilbert  sick 
to  hear.  The  tail  of  the  lean  herring  on  his  plate  remained 
untasted ;  he  swallowed  the  thin  tea  which  Miss  Ann 
poured  out,  and  the  heavy  "  half-Indian "  bread  with  a 
choking  sensation.  He  had  but  one  desire,  —  to  get  away 
from  the  room,  out  of  human  sight  and  hearing. 

Barton,  ill  at  ease,  and  avoiding  Gilbert's  eye,  accompa 
nied  him  to  the  lane.  He  felt  that  the  old  man's  garrulity 
ought  to  be  explained,  but  knew  not  what  to  say.  Gilbert 
spared  him  the  trouble. 

"  When  are  we  to  wish  you  joy,  Barton  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
cold,  hard  voice. 

Barton  laughed  in  a  forced  way,  clutched  at  his  tawny 
whisker,  and  with  something  like  a  flush  on  his  heavy  face, 
answered  in  what  was  meant  to  be  an  indifferent  tone  : 

"  Oh,  it 's  a  joke  of  the  old  man's  —  dont  mean  anything." 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  joke  of  the  whole  neighborhood,  then ; 
I  have  heard  it  from  others." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  Barton  eagerly  asked.  "  Do  people  talk 
about  it  much  ?  What  do  they  say  ?  " 

This  exhibition  of  vulgar  vanity,  as  he  considered  it, 
was  so  repulsive  to  Gilbert,  in  his  desperate,  excited  condi 
tion,  that  for  a  moment  he  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 
Holding  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  he  walked  mechanically 
down  the  slope,  Barton  following  him. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  faced  the  latter,  and  said,  in  a 
stern  voice  :  "  I  must  know,  first,  whether  you  are  betrothed 
to  Martha  Deane." 

His  manner  was  so  unexpectedly  solemn  and  peremp 
tory  that  Barton,  startled  from  his  self-possession,  stam 
mered,  — 

"  N-no  :  that  is,  not  yet." 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  309 

Another  pause.  Barton,  curious  to  know  how  far  gossip 
had  already  gone,  repeated  the  question  : 

<•  Well,  what  do  people  say  ?  " 

*•  Some,  that  you  and  she  will  be  married,"  Gilbert  an 
swered,  speaking  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  "  and  some 
that  you  won't.  Which  are  right  ?  " 

"  Damme,  if  1  know !  "  Barton  exclaimed,  returning  to 
his  customary  swagger.  It  was  quite  enough  that  the  mat 
ter  was  generally  talked  about,  and  he  had  said  nothing  to 
settle  it,  in  either  way.  But  his  manner,  more  than  his 
words,  convinced  Gilbert  that  there  was  no  betrothal  as 
yet.  and  that  the  vanity  of  being  regarded  as  the  success 
ful  suitor  of  a  lovely  girl  had  a  more  prominent  place  than 
love,  in  his  rival's  heart.  By  so  much  was  his  torture 
lightened,  and  the  passion  of  the  moment  subsided,  after 
having  so  nearly  betrayed  itself. 

"  I  say,  Gilbert,"  Barton  presently  remarked,  walking  on 
towards  the  bars  which  led  into  the  meadow-field ;  "  it 's 
time  you  were  looking  around  in  that  way,  hey  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  when  I  am  out  of  debt." 

"  But  you  ought,  now,  to  have  a  wife  in  your  house." 

"  I  have  a  mother,  Barton." 

"  That 's  true,  Gilbert.  Just  as  I  have  a  father.  The 
old  man's  queer,  as  you  saw  —  kept  me  out  of  marrying 
when  I  was  young,  and  now  drives  me  to  it.  I  might  ha' 
had  children  grown  "  — 

He  paused,  laying  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 
Gilbert  fancied  that  he  saw  on  Barton's  coarse,  dull  face, 
the  fleeting  stamp  of  some  long-buried  regret,  and  a  little 
of  the  recent  bitterness  died  out  of  his  heart. 

"  Good-bye ! "  he  said,  offering  his  hand  with  greater 
ease  than  he  would  have  thought  possible,  fifteen  minutes 
sooner. 

u  Good-bye,  Gilbert !  Take  care  of  Roger.  Sandy 
Flash  has  a  fine  piece  of  horse-flesh,  but  you  beat  him 
once  —  Damnation  !  You  could  beat  him,  I  mean.  If  he 


110  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

conies  within  ten  miles  of  us,  I  '11  have  the  summonses  out 
in  no  time." 

Gilbert  cantered  lightly  down  the  meadow.  The  soft 
breath  of  the  summer  evening  fanned  his  face,  and  some 
thing  of  the  peace  expressed  in  the  rich  repose  of  the 
landscape  fell  upon  his  heart.  But  peace,  he  felt,  could 
only  come  to  him  through  love.  The  shame  upon  his  name 
—  the  slow  result  of  labor  —  even  the  painful  store  of 
memories  which  the  years  had  crowded  in  his  brain  — 
might  all  be  lightly  borne,  or  forgotten,  could  his  arms 
once  clasp  the  now  uncertain  treasure.  A  tender  mist 
came  over  his  deep,  dark  eyes,  a  passionate  longing 
breathed  in  his  softened  lips,  and  he  said  to  himself,  — 

"  I  would  lie  down  and  die  at  her  feet,  if  that  could 
make  her  happy  ;  but  how  to  live,  and  live  without  her  ?  " 
This  was  a  darkness  which  his  mind  refused  to  entertain. 
Love  sees  no  justice  on  Earth  or  in  Heaven,  that  includes 
not  its  own  fulfilled  desire. 

Before  reaching  home,  he  tried  to  review  the  situation 
calmly.  Barton's  true  relation  to  Martha  Deane  he  par 
tially  suspected,  so  far  as  regarded  the  former's  vanity  and 
his  slavish  subservience  to  his  father's  will ;  but  he  was 
equally  avaricious,  and  it  was  well  kmown  in  Kennett  that 
Martha  possessed,  or  would  possess,  a  handsome  property 
in  her  own  right.  Gilbert,  therefore,  saw  every  reason  to 
believe  that  Barton  was  an  actual,  if  not  a  very  passionate 
wooer. 

That  fact,  however,  was  in  itself  of  no  great  importance, 
unless  Dr.  Deane  favored  the  suit.  The  result  depended 
on  Martha  herself ;  she  was  called  an  "  independent  girl," 
which  she  certainly  was,  by  contrast  with  other  girls  of 
the  same  age.  It  was  this  free,  firm,  independent,  yet 
wholly  womanly  spirit  which  Gilbert  honored  in  her,  and 
which  (unless  her  father's  influence  were  too  powerful) 
would  yet  save  her  to  him,  if  she  but  loved  him.  Then 
he  felt  that  his  nervous,  inflammable  fear  of  Barton  was 


THE  STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  Ill 

incompatible  with  true  honor  for  her,  with  trust  in  her  pure 
and  lofty  nature.  If  she  were  so  easily  swayed,  how  could 
she  stand  the  test  which  he  was  still  resolved  —  nay,  forced 
by  circumstances  —  to  apply  ? 

With  something  like  shame  of  his  past  excitement,  yet 
with  strength  which  had  grown  out  of  it,  his  reflections 
were  terminated  by  Roger  stopping  at  the  barn-yard  gate. 


112  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  XL 

GUESTS  AT  POTTER'S. 

A  WEEK  or  two  later,  there  was  trouble,  but  not  of  a 
very  unusual  kind,  in  the  Fairthorn  household.  It  was 
Sunday,  the  dinner  was  on  the  table,  but  Joe  and  Jake 
were  not  to  be  found.  The  garden,  the  corn-crib,  the  barn, 
and  the  grove  below  the  house,  were  searched,  without  de 
tecting  the  least  sign  of  the  truants.  Finally  Sally's  eyes 
descried  a  remarkable  object  moving  over  the  edge  of  the 
hill,  from  the  direction  of  the  Philadelphia  road.  It  was  a 
huge  round  creature,  something  like  a  cylindrical  tortoise, 
slowly  advancing  upon  four  short,  dark  legs. 

"  What  upon  earth  is  that  ?  "  she  cried. 

All  eyes  were  brought  to  bear  upon  this  phenomenon, 
which  gradually  advanced  until  it  reached  the  fence.  Then 
it  suddenly  separated  into  three  parts,  the  round  back  fall 
ing  off,  whereupon  it  was  seized  by  two  figures  and  lifted 
upon  the  fence. 

"  It  's  the  best  wash-tub,  I  do  declare ! "  said  Sally  ; 
"  whatever  have  they  been  doing  with  it  ?  " 

Having  crossed  the  fence,  the  boys  lifted  the  inverted 
tub  over  their  heads,  and  resumed  their  march.  When 
they  came  near  enough,  it  could  be  seen  that  their  breeches 
and  stockings  were  not  only  dripping  wet,  but  streaked 
with  black  swamp-mud.  This  accounted  for  the  unsteady, 
hesitating  course  of  the  tub,  which  at  times  seemed  inclined 
to  approach  the  house,  and  then  tacked  away  towards  the 
corner  of  the  barn-yard  wall.  A  few  vigorous  calls,  how- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  113 

ever,  appeared  to  convince  it  that  the  direct  course  was  the 
best,  for  it  set  out  wiih  a  grotesque  bobbing  trot,  which 
brought  it  speedily  to  the  kitchen-door. 

Then  Joe  and  Jake  crept  out,  dripping  to  the  very 
crowns  of  their  heads,  with  their  Sunday  shirts  and  jack 
ets  in  a  horrible  plight.  The  truth,  slowly  gathered  from 
their  mutual  accusations,  was  this :  they  had  resolved  to 
have  a  boating  excursion  on  Redley  Creek,  and  had  ab 
stracted  the  tub  that  morning  when  nobody  was  in  the 
kitchen.  Slipping  down  through  the  wood,  they  had 
launched  it  in  a  piece  of  still  water.  Joe  got  in  first,  and 
when  Jake  let  go  of  the  tub,  it  tilted  over ;  then  he  held  it 
for  Jake,  who  squatted  in  the  centre,  and  floated  success 
fully  down  the  stream  until  Joe  pushed  him  with  a  pole, 
and  made  the  tub  lose  its  balance.  Jake  fell  into  the  rnud, 
and  the  tub  drifted  away ;  they  had  chased  it  nearly  to  the 
road  before  they  recovered  it. 

"  You  bad  boys,  what  shall  I  do  with  you  ? "  cried 
Mother  Fairthorn.  "  Put  on  your  every-day  clothes,  and 
go  to  the  garret.  Sally,  you  can  ride  down  to  Potter's 
with  the  pears ;  they  won't  keep,  and  I  expect  Gilbert  has 
no  time  to  come  for  any,  this  summer." 

"  I  '11  go,"  said  Sally,  "  but  'Gilbert  don't  deserve  it.  The 
way  he  snapped  me  up  at  Halloweirs  —  and  he  has  n't 
been  here  since  ! " 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  him,  Sally  ! "  said  the  kindly  old 
woman  ;  nor  was  Sally's  more  than  a  surface  grudge.  She 
had  quite  a  sisterly  affection  for  Gilbert,  and  was  rather 
hurt  than  angered  by  what  he  had  said  in  the  fret  of  a 
mood  which  she  could  not  comprehend. 

The  old  mare  rejoiced  in  a  new  bridle,  with  a  head-stall 
of  scarlet  morocco,  and  Sally  would  have  .made  a  stately 
appearance,  but  for  the  pears,  which,  stowed  in  the  two 
ends  of  a  grain-bag,  and  hung  over  the  saddle,  would  not 
quite  be  covered  by  her  riding-skirt.  She  trudged  on 
slowly,  down  the  lonely  road,  but  had  barely  crossed  the 


114  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

level  below  Kennett  Square,  when  there  came  a  quick 
sound  of  hoofs  behind  her. 

It  was  Mark  and  Martha  Deane,  who  presently  drew 
rein,  one  on  either  §ide  of  her. 

"  Don't  ride  fast,  please,"  Sally  begged ;  "  /  can't,  for 
fear  of  smashing  the  pears.  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  Falconer's,"  Martha  replied ;  "  Fanny  promised  to 
lend  me  some  new  patterns ;  but  I  had  great  trouble  in 
getting  Mark  to  ride  with  me." 

"  Not,  if  you  will  ride  along,  Sally,"  Mark  rejoined. 
"  We  '11  go  with  you  first,  and  then  you  '11  come  with  us. 
What  do  you  say,  Martha?  " 

"  I  '11  answer  for  Martha  ! "  cried  Sally  ;  "  I  am  going  to 
Potter's,  and  it  's  directly  on  your  way." 

"  Just  the  thing,"  said  Mark ;  "  I  have  a  little  business 
with  Gilbert." 

It  was  all  settled  before  Martha's  vote  had  been  taken, 
and  she  accepted  the  decision  without  remark.  She  was 
glad,  for  Sally's  sake,  that  they  had  fallen  in  with  her,  for 
she  had  shrewdly  watched  Mark,  and  found  that,  little  by 
little,  a  serious  liking  for  her  friend  was  sending  its  roots 
down  through  the  gay  indifference  of  his  surface  mood. 
Perhaps  she  was  not  altogether  calm  in  spirit  at  the  pros 
pect  of  meeting  Gilbert  Potter ;  but,  if  so,  no  sign  of  the 
agitation  betrayed  itself  in  her  face. 

Gilbert,  sitting  on  the  porch,  half-hidden  behind  a  mass 
of  blossoming  trumpet-flower,  was  aroused  from  his  Sab 
bath  reverie  by  the  sound  of  hoofs.  Sally  Fairthorn's  voice 
followed,  reaching  even  the  ears  of  Mary  Potter,  who 
thereupon  issued  from  the  house  to  greet  the  unexpected 
guest.  Mark  had  already  dismounted,  and  although  Sally 
protested  that  she  would  remain  in  the  saddle,  the  strong 
arms  held  out  to  her  proved  too  much  of  a  temptation  ;  it 
was  so  charming  to  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  to 
have  his  take  her  by  the  waist,  and  lift  her  to  the  ground 
so  lightly ! 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  115 

"While  Mark  was  performing  this  service,  (and  evidently 
with  as  much  deliberation  as  possible.)  Gilbert  could  do  no 
less  than  offer  his  aid  to  Martha  Deane,  whose  sudden  ap 
parition  he  had  almost  incredulously  realized.  A  bright, 
absorbing  joy  kindled  his  sad,  strong  features  into  beauty, 
and  Martha  felt  her  cheeks  grow  warm,  in  spite  of  herself, 
as  their  eyes  met.  The  hands  that  touched  her  waist  were 
firm,  but  no  hands  had  ever  before  conveyed  to  her  heart 
such  a  sense  of  gentleness  and  tenderness,  and  though  her 
own  gloved  hand  rested  but  a  moment  on  his  shoulder,  the 
action  seemed  to  her  almost  like  a  caress. 

"  How  kind  of  you  —  all  —  to  come  !  "  said  Gilbert, 
feeling  that  his  voice  expressed  too  much,  and  his  words 
too  little. 

"  The  credit  of  coming  is  not  mine,  Gilbert,"  she  an 
swered.  "  We  overtook  Sally,  and  gave  her  our  company 
for  the  sake  of  hers,  afterwards.  But  I  shall  like  to  take  a 
look  at  your  place  ;  how  pleasant  you  are  making  it !  " 

"  You  are  the  first  to  say  so ;  I  shall  always  remember 
that!" 

Mary  Potter  now  advanced,  with  grave  yet  friendly  wel 
come,  and  would  have  opened  her  best  room  to  the  guests, 
but  the  bowery  porch,  with  its  swinging  scarlet  bloom, 
haunted  by  humming-birds  and  hawk-moths,  wooed  them 
to  take  their  seats  in  its  shade.  The  noise  of  a  plunging 
cascade,  which  restored  the  idle  mill-water  to  its  parted 
stream,  made  a  mellow,  continuous  music  in  the  air.  The 
high  road  was  visible  at  one  point,  across  the  meadow,  just 
where  it  entered  the  wood ;  otherwise,  the  seclusion  of  the 
place  was  complete. 

"  You  could  not  have  found  a  lovelier  home,  M — 
Mary,"  said  Martha,  terrified  to  think  how  near  the  words 
" J//-5.  Potter  "  had  been  to  her  lips.  But  she  had  recov 
ered  herself  so  promptly  that  the  hesitation  was  not  no 
ticed. 

"  Many  people  think  the  house  ought  to  be  upon  the 


116  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

road,"  Mary  Potter  replied,  "  but  Gilbert  and  I  like  it  as  it 
is.  Yes,  I  hope  it  will  be  a  good  home,  when  we  can  call 
it  our  own." 

"  Mother  is  a  little  impatient,"  said  Gilbert,  "  and  per 
haps  I  am  also.  But  if  we  have  health,  it  won't  be  very 
long  to  wait." 

"  That 's  a  thing  soon  learned  ! "  cried  Mark.  "  I  mean 
to  be  impatient.  Why,  when  I  was  doing  journey-work,  I 
was  as  careless  as  the  day  's  .long,  and  so  from  hand  to 
mouth  did  n't  trouble  me  a  bit ;  but  now,  I  ha'  n't  been 
undertaking  six  months,  and  it  seems  that  I  feel  worried  if 
I  don't  get  all  the  jobs  going  !  " 

Martha  smiled,  well  pleased  at  this  confession  of  the 
change,  which  she  knew  better  how  to  interpret  than  Mark 
himself.  But  Sally,  in  her  innocence,  remarked : 

"Oh  Mark!  that  is  n't  right." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  n't.  But  maybe  you  Ve  got  to  wish  for 
more  than  you  get,  in  order  to  get  what  you  do.  I  guess  I 
take  things  pretty  easy,  on  the  whole,  for  it 's  nobody's  na 
ture  to  be  entirely  satisfied.  Gilbert,  will  you  be  satisfied 
when  your  farm  's  paid  for  ?  " 

"  No ! "  answered  Gilbert  with  an  emphasis,  the  sound 
of  which,  as  soon  as  uttered,  smote  him  to  the  heart.  He 
had  not  thought  of  his  mother.  She  clasped  her  hands 
convulsively,  and  looked  at  him,  but  his  face  was  turned 
away. 

"  Why,  Gilbert !  "  exclaimed  Sally. 

"  I  mean,"  he  said,  striving  to  collect  his  thoughts,  "  that 
there  is  something  more  than  property  "  —  but  how  should 
he  go  on  ?  Could  he  speak  of  the  family  relation,  then 
and  there  ?  Of  honor  in  the  community,  the  respect  of  his 
neighbors,  without  seeming  to  refer  to  the  brand  upon  his 
and  his  mother's  name  ?  No ;  of  none  of  these  things. 
With  sudden  energy,  he  turned  upon  himself,  and  contin 
ued  : 

"  I  shall  not  feel  satisfied  until  I  am  cured  of  my  own 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  117 

impatience  —  until  I  can  better  control  my  temper,  and  get 
the  weeds  and  rocks  and  stumps  out  of  myself  as  well  as 
out  of  my  farm." 

"  Then  you  've  got  a  job  !  "  Mark  laughed.  "  I  think 
your  fields  are  pretty  tolerable  clean,  what  I  've  seen  of 
'em.  Nobody  can  say  they  're  not  well  fenced  in.  Why, 
compared  with  you,  I  'm  an  open  common,  like  the  Waste 
lands,  down  on  Whitely  Creek,  and  everybody's  cattle  run 
over  me ! " 

Mark's  thoughtlessness  was  as  good  as  tact.  They  all 
laughed  heartily  at  his  odd  continuation  of  the  simile,  and 
Martha  hastened  to  say  : 

"  For  my  part,  I  don't  think  you  are  quite  such  an  open 
common,  Mark,  or  Gilbert  so  well  fenced  in.  But  even  if 
you  are,  a  great  many  things  may  be  hidden  in  a  clearing, 
and  some  people  are  tall  enough  to  look  over  a  high  hedge. 
Betsy  Lavender  says  some  men  tell  all  about  themselves 
without  saying  a  word,  while  others  talk  till  Doomsday  and 
tell  nothing." 

"  And  tell  nothing,"  gravely  repeated  Mark,  whereat  no 
one  could  repress  a  smile,  and  Sally  laughed  outright. 

Mary  Potter  had  not  mingled  much  in  the  society  of 
Kennett,  and  did  not  know  that  this  imitation  of  good  Miss 
Betsy  was  a  very  common  thing,  and  had  long  ceased  to 
mean  any  harm.  It  annoyed  her,  and  she  felt  it  her  duty 
to  say  a  word  for  her  friend. 

"  There  is  not  a  better  or  kinder-hearted  woman  in  the 
county,"  she  said,  "  than  just  Betsy  Lavender.  With  all 
her  odd  ways  of  speech,  she  talks  the  best  of  sense  and 
wisdom,  and  I  don't  know  who  I  'd  sooner  take  for  a  guide 
in  times  of  trouble." 

"  You  could  not  give  Betsy  a  higher  place  than  she  de 
serves,"  Martha  answered.  "  We  all  esteem  her  as  a  dear 
friend,  and  as  the  best  helper  where  help  is  needed.  She 
has  been  almost  a  mother  to  me." 

Sally  felt  rebuked,  and  exclaimed  tearfully,  with   her 


118  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

usual  impetuous  candor,  — "  Now  you  know  I  meant  no 
harm  ;  it  was  all  Mark's  doing  !  " 

"  If  you  Ve  anything  against  me,  Sally,  I  forgive  you  for 
it.  It  is  n't  in  my  nature  to  bear  malice,"  said  Mark,  with  so 
serious  an  air,  that  poor  Sally  was  more  bewildered  than 
ever.  Gilbert  and  Martha,  however,  could  not  restrain 
their  laughter  at  the  fellow's  odd,  reckless  humor,  where 
upon  Sally,  suddenly  comprehending  the  joke,  sprang  from 
her  seat.  "  Mark  leaped  from  the  porch,  and  darted  around 
the  house,  followed  by  Sally  with  mock-angry  cries  and 
brandishings  of  her  riding- whip. 

The  scene  was  instantly  changed  to  Gilbert's  eyes.  It 
was  wonderful !  There,  on  the  porch  of  the  home  he  so 
soon  hoped  to  call  his  own,  sat  his  mother,  Martha  Deane, 
and  himself.  The  two  former  had  turned  towards  each 
other,  and  were  talking  pleasantly ;  the  hum  of  the  hawk- 
moths,  the  mellow  plunge  of  the  water,  and  the  stir  of  the 
soft  summer  breeze  in  the  leaves,  made  a  sweet  accom 
paniment  to  their  voices.  His  brain  grew  dizzy  with 
yearning  to  fix  that  chance  companionship,  and  make  it 
the  boundless  fortune  of  his  life.  Under  his  habit  of  re 
pression,  his  love  for  her  had  swelled  and  gathered  to  such 
an  intensity,  that  it  seemed  he  must  either  speak  or  die. 

Presently  the  rollicking  couple  made  their  appearance. 
Sally's  foot  had  caught  in  her  riding-skirt  as  she  ran, 
throwing  her  at  full  length  on  the  sward,  and  Mark,  in 
picking  her  up,  had  possessed  himself  of  the  whip.  She 
was  not  hurt  in  the  least,  (her  life  having  been  a  succes 
sion  of  tears  and  tumbles,)  but  Mark's  arm  found  it  neces 
sary  to  encircle  her  waist,  and  she  did  not  withdraw  from 
the  support  until  they  came  within  sight  of  the  porch. 

It  was  now  time  for  the  guests  to  leave,  but  Mary  Pot 
ter  must  first  produce  her  cakes  and  currant-wine,  —  the 
latter  an  old  and  highly  superior  article,  for  there  had 
been,  alas  !  too  few  occasions  which  called  for  its  use. 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Mark,  as  they  moved  towards  the  gate, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  119 

"  why  can't  you  catch  and  saddle  Roger,  and  ride  with  us  ? 
You  have  nothing  to  do  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  would  like  —  but  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  Falconer's ;  that  is,  the  girls ;  but  we  won't  stay 
for  supper  —  I  don't  fancy  quality  company." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Gilbert,  with  a  gloomy  face.  '•'  I  have 
never  visited  Falconer's,  and  they  might  not  thank  you 
for  introducing  me." 

He  looked  at  Martha,  as  he  spoke.  She  understood 
him,  and  gave  him  her  entire  sympathy  and  pity,  —  yet 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  propose  giving  up  the  visit, 
solely  for  his  sake.  It  was  not  want  of  independence,  but 
a  maidenly  shrinking  from  the  inference  of  the  act,  which 
kept  her  silent. 

Mark,  however,  cut  through  the  embarrassment.  "  I  '11 
tell  you  what,  Gilbert ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  go  and  get 
Roger  from  the  field,  while  we  ride  on  to  Falconer's.  If 
the  girls  will  promise  not  to  be  too  long  about  their  pat 
terns  and  their  gossip,  and  what  not,  we  can  be  back  to 
the  lane-end  by  the  time  you  get  there ;  then  we  '11  ride 
up  t'  other  branch  o'  Redley  Creek,  to  the  cross-road,  and 
out  by  Hallowell's.  I  want  to  have  a  squint  at  the  houses 
and  barns  down  that  way;  nothing  like  business,  you 
know ! " 

Mark  thought  he  was  very  cunning  in  thus  disposing  of 
Martha  during  the  ride,  unconscious  of  the  service  he  was 
offering  to  Gilbert.  The  latter's  eagerness  shone  from 
his  eyes,  but  still  he  looked  at  Martha,  trembling  for  a 
sign  that  should  decide  his  hesitation.  Her  lids  fell  before 
his  gaze,  and  a  faint  color  came  into  her  face,  yet  she  did 
not  turn  away.  This  time  it  was  Sally  Fairthorn  who 
spoke. 

"  Five  minutes  will  be  enough  for  us,  Mark,"  she  said. 
"I'm  not  much  acquainted  with  Fanny  Falconer.  So, 
Gilbert,  hoist  Martha  into  her  saddle,  and  go  for  Roger." 

He  opened  the  gate  for  them,  and  then  climbed  over 


120  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

the  fence  into  the  hill-field  above  his  house.  Having 
'reached  the  crest,  he  stopped  to  watch  the  three  riding 
abreast,  on  a  smart  trot,  down  the  glen.  Sally  looked 
back,  saw  him,  and  waved  her  hand  ;  then  Mark  and  Mar 
tha  turned,  giving  no  sign,  yet  to  his  eyes  there  seemed  a 
certain  expectancy  in  the  movement. 

Roger  came  from  the  farthest  corner  of  the  field  at  his 
call,  and  followed  him  down  the  hill  to  the  bars,  with  the 
obedient  attachment  of  a  dog.  When  he  had  carefully 
brushed  and  then  saddled  the  horse,  he  went  to  seek  his 
mother,  who  was  already  making  preparations  for  their 
parly  supper. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  ride  a  little  way." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully  and  questioningly,  as  if  she 
would  fain  have  asked  more  ;  but  only  said,  — 

"  Won't  you  be  home  to  supper,  Gilbert  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell,  but  don't  wait  a  minute,  if  I  'm  not  here 
when  it 's  ready." 

He  turned  quickly,  as  if  fearful  of  a  further  question, 
and  the  next  moment  was  in  the  saddle. 

The  trouble  in  Mary  Potter's  face  increased.  Sighing 
sorely,  she  followed  to  the  bridge  of  the  barn,  and  pres 
ently  descried  him,  beyond  the  mill,  cantering  lightly 
down  the  road.  Then,  lifting  her  arms,  as  in  a  blind 
appeal  for  help,  she  let  them  fall  again,  and  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  house 


THE   STORY   OF   KENXETT.  121 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    EVENTS    OF    AX    EVENING. 

AT  the  first  winding  of  the  creek,  Gilbert  drew  rein, 
with  a  vague,  half  -  conscious  sense  of  escape.  The  eye 
which  had  followed  him  thus  far  was  turned  away  at  last. 

For  half  a  mile  the  road  lay  through  a  lovely  solitude 
of  shade  and  tangled  bowery  thickets,  beside  the  stream. 
The  air  was  soft  and  tempered,  and  filled  the  glen  like  the 
breath  of  some  utterly  peaceful  and  happy  creature ;  yet 
over  Gilbert's  heart  there  brooded  another  atmosphere 
than  this.  The  sultriness  that  precedes  an  emotional  crisis 
weighed  heavily  upon  him. 

No  man.  to  whom  Nature  has  granted  her  highest  gift, 
—  that  of  expression,  —  can  understand  the  pain  endured 
by  one  of  strong  feelings,  to  whom  not  only  this  gift  has 
been  denied,  but  who  must  also  wrestle  with  an  inherited  re 
ticence.  It  is  well  that  in  such  cases  a  kindly  law  exists,  to 
aid  the  helpless  heart.  The  least  portion  of  the  love  which 
lights  the  world  has  been  told  in  words  ;  it  works,  attracts, 
and  binds  in  silence.  The  eye  never  knows  its  own  desire, 
the  hand  its  warmth,  the  voice  its  tenderness,  nor  the  heart 
its  unconscious  speech  through  these,  and  a  thousand  other 
vehicles.  Every  endeavor  to  hide  the  special  fact  betrays 
the  feeling  from  which  it  sprang. 

Like  all  men  of  limited  culture,  Gilbert  felt  his  helpless 
ness  keenly.  His  mind,  usually  clear  in  its  operations,  if 
somewhat  slow  and  cautious,  refused  to  assist  him  here  ; 
it  lay  dead  or  apathetic  in  an  air  surcharged  with  passion. 
An  anxious  expectancy  enclosed  him  with  stifling  pressure ; 


122  THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT. 

he  felt  that  it  must  be  loosened,  but  knew  not  how.  His 
craving  for  words — words  swift,  clear,  and  hot  as  lightning, 
through  which  his  heart  might  discharge  itself —  haunted 
him  like  a  furious  hunger. 

The  road,  rising  out  of  the  glen,  passed  around  the  brow 
of  a  grassy  hill,  whence  he  could  look  across  a  lateral  valley 
to  the  Falconer  farm-house.  Pausing  here,  he  plainly 
descried  a  stately  "  chair  "  leaning  on  its  thills,  in  the  shade 
of  the  weeping-willow,  three  horses  hitched  side  by  side  to 
the  lane-fence,  and  a  faint  glimmer  of  color  between  the 
mounds  of  bo:x  which  almost  hid  the  porch.  It  was  very 
evident  to  his  mind  that  the  Falconers  had  other  visitors, 
and  that  neither  Mark  nor  Sally,  (whatever  might  be 
Martha  Deane's  inclination,)  would  be  likely  to  prolong 
their  stay;  so  he  slowly  rode  on,  past  the  lane-end,  and 
awaited  them  at  the  ford  beyond. 

It  was  not  long  —  though  the  wood  on  the  western  hill 
already  threw  its  shadow  into  the  glen  —  before  the  sound 
of  voices  and  hoofs  emerged  from  the  lane.  Sally's  re 
mark  reached  him  first  : 

"  They  may  be  nice  people  enough,  for  aught  I  know, 
but  their  ways  are  not  my  ways,  and  there  's  no  use  in 
trying  to  mix  them." 

"That's  a  fact!"  said  Mark.  "Hallo,  here's  Gilbert, 
ahead  of  us  ! " 

They  rode  into  the  stream  together,  and  let  their  horses 
drink  from  the  clear,  swift-flowing  water.  In  Mark's  and 
Sally's  eyes,  Gilbert  was  as  grave  and  impassive  as  usual, 
but  Martha  Deane  was  conscious  of  a  strange,  warm,  subtle 
power,  which  seemed  to  envelop  her  as  she  drew  near  him. 
Her  face  glowed  with  a  sweet,  unaccustomed  flush ;  his 
was  pale,  and  the  shadow  of  his  brows  lay  heavier  upon  his 
eyes.  Fate  was  already  taking  up  the  invisible,  floating 
filaments  of  these  two  existences,  and  weaving  them  to 
gether. 

Of  course  it  happened,  and  of  course  by  the  purest  acci- 


THE   STORY  OF  KENXETT.  123 

dent,  that  Mark  and  Sally  first  reached  the  opposite  bank, 
and  took  the  narrow  wood-road,  where  the  loose,  briery 
sprays  of  the  thickets  brushed  them  on  either  side.  Sally's 
hat,  and  probably  her  head,  would  have  been  carried  off 
by  a  projecting  branch,  had  not  Mark  thrown  his  arm 
around  her  neck  and  forcibly  bent  her  forwards.  Then 
she  shrieked  and  struck  at  him  with  her  riding-whip, 
while  Mark's  laugh  woke  all  the  echoes  of  the  woods. 

"  I  say,  Gilbert ! "  he  cried,  turning  back  in  his  saddle, 
"  I  '11  hold  you  responsible  for  Martha's  head  ;  it 's  as  much 
as  /can  do  to  keep  Sally's  on  her  shoulders." 

Gilbert  looked  at  his  companion,  as  she  rode  slowly 
by  his  side,  through  the  cool,  mottled  dusk  of  the  woods. 
She  had  drawn  the  strings  of  her  beaver  through  a  button 
hole  of  her  riding-habit,  and  allowed  it  to  hang  upon  her 
back.  The  motion  of  the  horse  gave  a  gentle,  undulating 
grace  to  her  erect,  self-reliant  figure,  and  her  lips,  slightly 
parted,  breathed  maidenly  trust  and  consent.  She  turned 
her  face  towards  him  and  smiled,  at  Mark's  words. 

u  The  warning  is  unnecessary,"  he  said.  "  You  will  give 
me  no  chance  to  take  care  of  you,  Martha." 

"  Is  it  not  better  so  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  hesitated ;  he  would  have  said  "  No,"  but  finally 
evaded  a  direct  answer. 

"  I  would  be  glad  enough  to  do  you  a  service  —  even  so 
little  as  that,"  were  his  words,  and  the  tender  tone  in  which 
they  were  spoken  made  itself  evident  to  his  own  ears. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  Gilbert,"  she  answered,  so  kindly  and 
cordially  that  he  was  smitten  to  the  heart.  Had  she  fal 
tered  in  her  reply,  —  had  she  blushed  and  kept  silence,  — 
his  hope  would  have  seized  the  evidence  and  rushed  to 
the  trial ;  but  this  was  the  frankness  of  friendship,  not  the 
timidity  of  love.  She  could  not,  then,  suspect  his  passion, 
and  ah,  how  the  risks  of  its  utterance  were  multiplied ! 

Meanwhile,  the  wonderful  glamour  of  her  presence  — 
that  irresistible  influence  which  at  once  takes  hold  of  body 


124  THE  STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

and  spirit  —  had  entered  into  every  cell  of  his  blood. 
Thought  and  memory  were  blurred  into  nothingness  by 
this  one  overmastering  sensation.  Riding  through  the 
lonely  woods,  out  of  shade  into  yellow,  level  sunshine,  in 
the  odors  of  minty  meadows  and  moist  spices  of  the  creek- 
side,  they  twain  seemed  to  him  to  be  alone  in  the  world. 
If  they  loved  not  each  other,  why  should  not  the  leaves 
shrivel  and  fall,  the  hills  split  asunder,  and  the  sky  rain 
death  upon  them  ?  Here  she  moved  at  his  side  —  he 
could  stretch  out  his  hand  and  touch  her ;  his  heart  sprang 
towards  her,  his  arms  ached  for  very  yearning  to  clasp 
her,  —  his  double  nature  demanded  her  with  the  will  and 
entreated  for  her  with  the  affection !  Under  all,  felt 
though  not  suspected,  glowed  the  vast  primal  instinct  upon 
which  the  strength  of  manhood  and  of  womanhood  is 
based. 

Sally  and  Mark,  a  hundred  yards  in  advance,  now  thrown 
into  sight  and  now  hidden  by  the  windings  of  the  road, 
were  so  pleasantly  occupied  with  each  other  that  they  took 
no  heed  of  the  pair  behind  them.  Gilbert  was  silent; 
speech  was  mockery,  unless  it  gave  the  wrords  which  he 
did  not  dare  to  pronounce.  His  manner  was  sullen  and 
churlish  in  Martha's  eyes,  he  suspected ;  but  so  it  must  be, 
unless  a  miracle  were  sent  to  aid  him.  She,  riding  as 
quietly,  seemed  to  meditate,  apparently  unconscious  of  his 
presence ;  how  could  he  know  that  she  had  never  before 
been  so  vitally  conscious  of  it  ? 

The  long  rays  of  sunset  withdrew  to  the  tree-tops,  and 
a  deeper  hush  fell  upon  the  land.  The  road  which  had 
mounted  along  the  slope  of  a  stubble-field,  now  dropped 
again  into  a  wooded  hollow,  where  a  tree,  awkwardly  felled, 
lay  across  it.  Roger  pricked  up  his  ears  and  leaped  lightly 
over.  Martha's  horse  followed,  taking  the  log  easily,  but 
she  reined  him  up  the  next  moment,  uttering  a  slight  ex 
clamation,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  wistfully  towards 
Gilbert. 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  125 

To  seize  it  and  bring  Roger  to  a  stand  was  the  work  of 
an  instant.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Martha  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  think  the  girth  is  broken,"  said  she.  '•  The  saddle 
is  loose,  and  I  was  nigh  losing  my  balance.  Thank  you, 
I  can  sit  steadily  now." 

Gilbert  sprang  to  the  ground  and  hastened  to  her  assist 
ance. 

"  Yes,  it  is  broken,"  he  said,  "  but  I  can  give  you  mine. 
You  had  better  dismount,  though  ;  see,  I  will  hold  the 
pommel  firm  with  one  hand,  while  I  lift  you  down  with  the 
other.  Not  too  fast,  I  am  strong ;  place  your  hands  on 
my  shoulders  —  so  ! " 

She  bent  forward  and  laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 
Then,  as  she  slid  gently  down,  his  right  arm  crept  aroiuid 
her  waist,  holding  her  so  firmly  and  securely  that  she  had 
left  the  saddle  and  hung  in  its  support  while  her  feet  had 
not  yet  touched  the  earth.  Her  warm  breath  was  on  Gil 
bert's  forehead  ;  her  bosom  swept  his  breast,  and  the  arm 
that  until  then  had  supported,  now  swiftly,  tenderly,  irre 
sistibly  embraced  her.  Trembling,  thrilling  from  head  to 
foot,  utterly  unable  to  control  the  mad  impulse  of  the  mo 
ment,  he  drew  her  to  his  heart  and  laid  his  lips  to  hers. 
All  that  he  would  have  said  —  all,  and  more  than  all, 
that  words  could  have  expressed  —  was  now  said,  without 
words.  His  kiss  clung  as  if  it  were  the  last  this  side  of 
death  —  clung  until  he  felt  that  Martha  feebly  strove  to 
be  released. 

The  next  minute  they  stood  side  by  side,  and  Gilbert, 
by  a  revulsion  equally  swift  and  overpowering,  burst  into 
a  passion  of  tears. 

He  turned  and  leaned  his  head  against  Eoger's  neck. 
Presently  a  light  touch  came  upon  his  shoulder. 

«  Gilbert ! " 

He  faced  her  then,  and  saw  that  her  own  cheeks  were 
wet.  "  Martha  !  "  he  cried,  "  unless  you  love  me  with  a 
love  like  mine  for  you,  you  can  never  forgive  me  !  " 


126  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

She  came  nearer ;  she  laid  her  arms  around  him,  and 
lifted  her  face  to  his.  .  Then  she  said,  in  a  tender,  tremu 
lous  whisper,  — 

"  Gilbert  —  Gilbert !     I  forgive  you." 

A  pang  of  wonderful,  incredulous  joy  shot  through  his 
heart.  Exalted  by  his  emotion  above  the  constraints  of 
his  past  and  present  life,  he  arose  and  stood  free  and  strong 
in  his  full  stature  as  a  man.  He  held  her  softly  and  ten 
derly  embraced,  and  a  purer  bliss  than  the  physical  delight 
of  her  warm,  caressing  presence  shone  upon  his  face  as  he 
asked,  — 

"Forever,  Martha?" 

«  Forever." 

"  Knowing  what  T  am  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  what  you  are,  Gilbert !  " 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  she  felt  softer 
tears  —  tears  which  came  this  time  without  sound  or  pang 
—  upon  her  neck.  It  was  infinitely  touching  to  see  this 
strong  nature  so  moved,  and  the  best  bliss  that  a  true  wom 
an's  heart  can  feel  —  the  knowledge  of  the  boundless 
bounty  which  her  love  brings  with  it  —  opened  upon  her 
consciousness.  A  swift  instinct  revealed  to  her  the  painful 
struggles  of  Gilbert's  life,  —  the  stern,  reticent  strength 
they  had  developed,  —  the  anxiety  and  the  torture,  of  his 
long-suppressed  passion,  and  the  power  and  purity  of  that 
devotion  with  which  his  heart  had  sought  and  claimed  her. 
She  now  saw  him  in  his  true  character,  —  firm  as  steel,  yet 
gentle  as  dew,  patient  and  passionate,  and  purposely  cold 
only  to  guard  the  sanctity  of  his  emotions. 

The  twilight  deepened  in  the  wood,  and  Roger,  stretch 
ing  and  shaking  himself,  called  the  lovers  to  themselves. 
Gilbert  lifted  his  head  and  looked  into  Martha's  sweet,  un 
shrinking  eyes. 

"  May  the  Lord  bless  you,  as  you  have  blessed  me  ! "  he 
said,  solemnly.  "  Martha,  did  you  guess  this  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  felt  that  it  must  be  so." 


THE   STORY  OF   KENXETT.  127 

"  And  you  did  not  draw  back  from  me  —  you  did  not 
shun  the  thought  of  me !  You  were  "  — 

He  paused ;  was  there  not  blessing  enough,  or  must  he 
curiously  question  its  growth  ? 

Martha,  however,  understood  the  thought  in  his  mind. 
"  Xo,  Gilbert !  "  she  said,  "  I  cannot  truly  say  that  I  loved 
you  at  the  time  when  I  first  discovered  your  feeling  towards 
me.  I  had  always  esteemed  and  trusted  you,  and  you  were 
much  in  my  mind ;  but  when  I  asked  myself  if  I  could 
look  upon  you  as  my  husband,  my  heart  hesitated  with  the 
answer.  I  did  not  deserve  your  affection  then,  because  I 
could  not  repay  it  in  the  same  measure.  But,  although  the 
knowledge  seemed  to  disturb  me,  sometimes,  yet  it  was  very 
grateful,  and  therefore  I  could  not  quite  make  up  my  mind 
to  discourage  you.  Indeed,  I  knew  not  what  was  right  to 
do,  but  I  found  myself  more  and  more  strongly  drawn  to 
wards  you ;  a  power  came  from  you  when  we  met,  that 
touched  and  yet  strengthened  me,  and  then  I  thought, 
1  Perhaps  I  do  love  him.'  To-day,  when  I  first  saw  your 
face,  I  knew  that  I  did.  I  felt  your  heart  calling  to  me 
like  one  that  cries  for  help,  and  mine  answered.  It  has 
been  slow  to  speak,  Gilbert,  but  I  know  it  has  spoken  truly 
at  last!" 

He  replaced  the  broken  girth,  lifted  her  into  the  saddle, 
mounted  his  own  horse,  and  they  resumed  their  ride  along 
the  dusky  valley.  But  how  otherwise  their  companionship 
now! 

"  Martha,"  said  Gilbert,  leaning  towards  her  and  touch 
ing  her  softly  as  he  spoke,  as  if  fearful  that  some  power  in 
in  his  words  might  drive  them  apart,  —  "  Martha,  have  you 
considered  what  I  am  called  ?  That  the  family  name  I 
bear  is  in  itself  a  disgrace  ?  Have  you  imagined  what  it  is 
to  love  one  so  dishonored  as  I  am  ?  " 

The  delicate  line  of  her  upper  lip  grew  clear  and  firm 
again,  temporarily  losing  its  relaxed  gentleness.  "  I  have 
thought  of  it,"  she  answered,  "  but  not  in  that  way.  Gil- 


128  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

bert,  I  honored  you  before  I  loved  you.  I  will  not  say  that 
this  thing  makes  no  difference,  for  it  does  —  a  difference  in 
the  name  men  give  you,  a  difference  in  your  work  through 
life  (for  you  must  deserve  more  esteem  to  gain  as  much  as 
other  men)  —  and  a  difference  in  my  duty  towards  you. 
They  call  me  'independent,'  Gilbert,  because,  though  a 
woman,  I  dare  to  think  for  myself;  I  know  not  whether 
they  mean  praise  by  the  word,  or  no  ;  but  I  think  it  would 
frighten  away  the  thought  of  love  from  many  men.  It  has 
not  frightened  you ;  and  you,  however  you  were  born,  are 
the  faithfullest  and  best  man  I  know.  I  love  you  with  my 
whole  heart,  and  I  will  be  true  to  you ! " 

With  these  words,  Martha  stretched  out  her  hand.  Gil 
bert  took  and  held  it,  bowing  his  head  fondly  over  it,  and 
inwardly  thanking  God  that  the  test  which  his  pride  had 
exacted  was  over  at  last.  He  could  reward  her  truth,  spare 
her  the  willing  sacrifice,  —  and  he  would. 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  "  if  I  sometimes  doubted  whether 
you  could  share  my  disgrace,  it  was  because  I  had  bitter 
cause  to  feel  how  heavy  it  is  to  bear.  God  knows  I  would 
have  come  to  you  with  a  clean  and  honorable  name,  if  I 
could  have  been  patient  to  wait  longer  in  uncertainty. 
But  I  could  not  tell  how  long  the  time  might  be,  —  I  could 
not  urge  my  mother,  nor  even  ask  her  to  explain  "  — 

"  No,  no,  Gilbert !     Spare  her  !  "  Martha  interrupted. 

"  I  have,  Martha,  —  God  bless  you  for  the  words  !  —  and 
I  will ;  it  would  be  the  worst  wickedness  not  to  be  patient, 
now !  But  I  have  not  yet  told  you  "  — 

A  loud  halloo  rang  through  the  dusk. 

"  It  is  Mark's  voice,"  said  Martha ;  "  answer  him  !  " 

Gilbert  shouted,  and  a  double  cry  instantly  replied. 
They  had  reached  the  cross-road  from  New-Garden,  and 
Mark  and  Sally,  who  had  been  waiting  impatiently  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  rode  to  meet  them.  "  Did  you  lose  the 
road  ?  "  "  Whatever  kept  you  so  long  ?  "  were  the  simul 
taneous  questions. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  129 

"  My  girth  broke  in  jumping  over  the  tree,"  Martha  an 
swered,  in  her  clear,  untroubled  voice.  "  I  should  have 
been  thrown  off,  but  for  Gilbert's  help.  He  had  to  give 
me  his  own  girth,  and  so  we  have  ridden  slowly,  since  he 
has  none." 

"  Take  my  breast-strap,"  said  Mark. 

"  No,"  said  Gilbert,  "  I  can  ride  Roger  bareback,  if  need 
be,  with  the  saddle  on  my  shoulder." 

Something  in  his  voice  struck  Mark  and  Sally  singularly. 
It  was  grave  and  subdued,  yet  sweet  in  its  tones  as  never 
before ;  he  had  not  yet  descended  from  the  solemn  ex 
altation  of  his  recent  mood.  But  the  dusk  sheltered  his 
face,  and  its  new  brightness  was  visible  only  to  Martha's 
eyes. 

Mark  and  Sally  again  led  the  way,  and  the  lovers  fol 
lowed  in  silence  up  the  hill,  until  they  struck  the  Wilming 
ton  road,  below  HallowelTs.  Here  Gilbert  felt  that  it  was 
best  to  leave  them. 

"  Well,  you  two  are  cheerful  company  !  "  exclaimed  Sally, 
as  they  checked  their  horses.  u  Martha,  how  many  words 
has  Gilbert  spoken  to  you  this  evening  ? " 

"  As  many  as  I  have  spoken  to  him,"  Martha  answered  ; 
"  but  I  will  say  three  more,  —  Good-night,  Gilbert ! " 

"  Good-night ! "  was  all  he  dared  say,  in  return,  but  the 
pressure  of  his  hand  burned  long  upon  her  fingers. 

He  rode  homewards  in  the  starlight,  transformed  by  love 
and  gratitude,  proud,  tender,  strong  to  encounter  any  fate. 
His  mother  sat  in  the  lonely  kitchen,  with  the  New  Testa 
ment  in  her  lap ;  she  had  tried  to  read,  but  her  thoughts 
wandered  from  the  consoling  text.  The  table  was  but 
half-cleared,  and  the  little  old  teapot  still  squatted  beside 
the  coals. 

Gilbert  strove  hard  to  assume  his  ordinary  manner,  but 
he  could  not  hide  the  radiant  happiness  that  shone  from  his 
eyes  and  sat  upon  his  lips. 

••  You  've  not  had  supper  ?  "  Mary  Potter  asked. 
9 


130  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  No,  mother  !  but  I  'm  sorry  you  kept  things  waiting ;  I 
can  do  well  enough  without." 

"  It 's  not  right  to  go  without  your  regular  meals,  Gil 
bert.  Sit  up  to  the  table  !  " 

She  poured  out  the  tea,  and  Gilbert  ate  and  drank  in 
silence.  His  mother  said  nothing,  but  he  knew  that  her 
eye  was  upon  him,  and  that  he  was  the  subject  of  her 
thoughts.  Once  or  twice  he  detected  a  wistful,  questioning 
expression,  which,  in  his  softened  mood,  touched  him  al 
most  like  a  reproach. 

When  the  table  had  been  cleared  and  everything  put 
away,  she  resumed  her  seat,  breathing  an  unconscious 
sigh  as  she  dropped  her  hands  into  her  lap.  Gilbert  felt 
that  he  must  now  speak,  and  only  hesitated  while  he  con 
sidered  how  he  could  best  do  so,  without  touching  her 
secret  and  mysterious  trouble. 

"  Mother ! "  he  said  at  last,  "  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

"Ay,  Gilbert?" 

"  Maybe  it  '11  seem  good  news  to  you ;  but  maybe  not. 
I  have  asked  Martha  Deane  to  be  my  wife !  " 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  her.  She  clasped  her  hands, 
leaned  forward,  and  fixed  her  dark,  mournful  eyes  intently 
upon  his  face. 

"I  have  been   drawn   towards   her  for   a   long  time," 

O 

Gilbert  continued.  "  It  has  been  a  great  trouble  to 
me,  because  she  is  so  pretty,  and  withal  so  proud  in 
the  way  a  girl  should  be, — I  liked  her  pride,  even  while 
it  made  me  afraid,  —  and  they  say  she  is  rich  also.  It 
might  seem  like  looking  too  high,  mother,  but  I  could  n't 
help  it." 

"  There  's  no  woman  too  high  for  you,  Gilbert !  "  Mary 
Potter  exclaimed.  Then  she  went  on,  in  a  hurried,  un 
steady  voice  :  "  It  is  n't  that  —  I  mistrusted  it  would  come 
so,  some  day,  but  I  hoped  —  only  for  your  good,  my  boy, 
only  for  that  —  I  hoped  not  so  soon.  You  're  still  young 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  131 

—  not   twenty-five,   and   there   's   debt   on    the    farm;  — 
could  n't  you  ha'  waited  a  little,  Gilbert  ? " 

"  I  have  waited,  mother,"  he  said,  slightly  turning  away 
his  head,  that  he  might  not  see  the  tender  reproach  in  her 
face,  which  her  question  seemed  to  imply.  "  I  did  wait  — 
and  for  that  reason.  I  wanted  first  to  be  independent,  at 
least ;  and  I  doubt  that  I  would  have  spoken  so  soon,  but 
there  were  others  after  Martha,  and  that  put  the  thought 
of  losing  her  into  my  head.  It  seemed  like  a  matter  of 
life  or  death.  Alfred  Barton  tried  to  keep  company  with 
her  —  he  did  n't  deny  it  to  my  face  ;  the  people  talked  of 
it.  Folks  always  say  more  than  they  know,  to  be  sure,  but 
then,  the  chances  were  so  much  against  me,  mother !  I 
was  nigh  crazy,  sometimes.  I  tried  my  best  and  bravest  to 
be  patient,  but  to-day  we  were  riding  alone,  —  Mark  and 
Sally  gone  ahead,  —  and  —  and  then  it  came  from  my 
mouth,  I  don't  know  how ;  I  did  n't  expect  it.  But  I 
should  n't  have  doubted  Martha ;  she  let  me  speak ;  she 
answered  me  —  I  can't  tell  you  her  words,  mother,  though 
I  '11  never  forget  one  single  one  of  'em  to  my  dying  day. 
She  gave  me  her  hand  and  said  she  would  be  true  to  me 
forever." 

Gilbert  waited,  as  if  his  mother  might  here  speak,  but 
she  remained  silent. 

"  Do  you  understand,  mother  ?  "  he  continued.  "  She 
pledged  herself  to  me  —  she  will  be  my  wife.  And  I 
asked  her  —  you  won't  be  hurt,  for  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty 

—  whether  she  knew  how  disgraced  I  was  in  the  eyes  of 
the  people,  —  whether  my  name  would  not  be  a  shame  for 
her  to  bear  ?     She  could  n't  know  what  we  know  :  she  took 
me  even  with  the  shame,  —  and  she  looked  prouder  than 
ever  when  she  stood  by  me  in  the  thought  of  it !     She 
would  despise  me,  now,  if  I  should  offer  to  give  her  up  on 
account  of  it,  but  she  may  know  as  much  as  I  do,  mother  ? 
She  deserves  it." 

There  was  no  answer.     Gilbert  looked  up. 


132  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Mary  Potter  sat  perfectly  still  in  her  high  rocking-chair. 
Her  arms  hung  passively  at  her  sides,  and  her  head  leaned 
back  and  was  turned  to  one  side,  as  if  she  were  utterly  ex 
hausted.  But  in,  the  pale  face,  the  closed  eyes,  and  the 
blue  shade  about  the  parted  lips,  he  saw  that  she  was  un 
conscious  of  his  words.  She  had  fainted. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  133 


CHAPTER 

TWO    OLD    MEN. 

SHORTLY  after  Martha  Deane  left  home  for  her  eventful 
ride  to  Falconer's,  the  Doctor  also  mounted  his  horse  and 
rode  out  of  the  village  in  the  opposite  direction.  Two 
days  before,  he  had  been  summoned  to  bleed  "  Old-man 
Barton,"  on  account  of  a  troublesome  buzzing  in  the  head, 
and,  although  not  bidden  to  make  a  second  professional 
visit,  there  was  sufficient  occasion  for  him  to  call  upon  his 
patient  in  the  capacity  of  a  neighbor. 

Dr.  Deane  never  made  a  step  outside  the  usual  routine 
of  his  business  without  a  special  and  carefully  considered 
reason.  Various  causes  combined  to  inspire  his  move 
ment  in  the  present  instance.  The  neighborhood  was 
healthy  ;  the  village  was  so  nearly  deserted  that  no  curious 
observers  lounged  upon  the  tavern-porch,  or  sat  upon  the 
horse-block  at  the  comer-store;  and  Mr.  Alfred  Barton 
had  been  seen  riding  towards  Avondale.  There  would 
have  been  safety  in  a  much  more  unusual  proceeding  ;  this, 
therefore,  might  be  undertaken  in  that  secure,  easy  frame 
of  mind  which  the  Doctor  both  cultivated  and  recom 
mended  to  the  little  world  around  him. 

The  Barton  farm-house  was  not  often  molested  by  the 
presence  of  guests,  and  he  found  it  as  quiet  and  lifeless  as 
an  uninhabited  island  of  the  sea.  Leavincr  his  horse 

o 

hitched  in  the  shade  of  the  corn-crib,  he  first  came  upon 
Giles,  stretched  out  under  the  holly-bush,  and  fast  asleep, 
with  his  head  upon  his  jacket.  The  door  and  window  of 
the  family-room  were  open,  and  Dr.  Deane,  walking  softly 


134  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

upon  the  thick  grass,  saw  that  Old-man  Barton  was  in  his 
accustomed  seat.  His  daughter  Ann  was  not  visible  ;  she 
was  at  that  moment  occupied  in  taking  out  of  the  drawers 
of  her  queer  old  bureau,  in  her  narrow  bedroom  up-stairs, 
various  bits  of  lace  and  ribbon,  done  up  in  lavender,  and 
perchance  (for  we  must  not  be  too  curious)  a  broken  six 
pence  or  a  lock  of  dead  hair. 

The  old  man's  back  was  towards  the  window,  but  the 
Doctor  could  hear  that  papers  were  rustling  and  crackling 
in  his  trembling  hands,  and  could  see  that  an  old  casket  of 
very  solid  oak,  bound  with  iron,  stood  on  the  table  at  his 
elbow.  Thereupon  he  stealthily  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
gate,  shut  it  with  a  sharp  snap,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
mounted  the  porch  with  slow,  loud,  deliberate  steps. 
When  he  reached  the  open  door,  he  knocked  upon  the 
jamb  without  looking  into  the  room.  There  was  a  jerk 
ing,  dragging  sound  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  old  man's 
snarl  was  heard : 

"  Who  's  there  ?  " 

Dr.  Deane  entered,  smiling,  and  redolent  of  sweet-mar 
joram.  <"  Well,  Friend  Barton,"  he  said,  "  let 's  have  a 
look  at  thee  now  !  " 

Thereupon  he  took  a  chair,  placed  it  in  front  of  the  old 
man,  and  sat  down  upon  it,  with  his  legs  spread  wide  apart, 
and  his  ivory-headed  cane  (which  he  also  used  as  a  riding- 
whip)  bolt  upright  between  them.  He  was  very  careful 
not  to  seem  to  see  that  a  short  quilt,  which  the  old  man 
usually  wore  over  his  knees,  now  lay  in  a  somewhat  angu 
lar  heap  upon  the  table. 

"  Better,  I  should  say,  —  yes,  decidedly  better,"  he  re 
marked,  nodding  his  head  gravely.  "  I  had  nothing  to  do 
this  afternoon,  —  the  neighborhood  is  very  healthy,  —  and 
thought  I  would  ride  down  and  see  how  thee  's  getting  on. 
Only  a  friendly  visit,  thee  knows." 

The  old  man  had  laid  one  shaking  arm  and  crooked 
hand  upon  the  edge  of  the  quilt,  while  with  the  other  he 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  135 

grasped  his  hickory  staff.  His  face  had  a  strange,  ashy 
color,  through  which  the  dark,  corded  veins  on  his  temples 
showed  with  singular  distinctness.  But  his  eye  was  unusu 
ally  bright  and  keen,  and  its  cunning,  suspicious  expression 
did  not  escape  the  Doctor's  notice. 

"  A  friendly  visit  —  ay  !  "  he  growled  —  "  not  like  Doc 
tors'  visits  generally,  eh  ?  Better  ?  —  of  course  I  'm  bet 
ter.  It 's  no  harm  to  tap  one  of  a  full-blooded  breed.  At 
our  age,  Doctor,  a  little  blood  goes  a  great  way." 

"  Xo  doubt,  no  doubt !  "  the  Doctor  assented.  "  Espe 
cially  in  thy  case.  I  often  speak  of  thy  wonderful  constitu 
tion.'' 

"  Neighborly,  you  say,  Doctor  —  only  neighborly  ?  "  asked 
the  old  man.  The  Doctor  smiled,  nodded,  and  seemed  to 
exhale  a  more  powerful  herbaceous  odor. 

"  Mayhap,  then,  you  '11  take  a  bit  of  a  dram  ?  —  a  thim 
ble-full  won't  come  amiss.  You  know  the  shelf  where  it 's 
kep'  —  reach  to,  and  help  yourself,  and  then  help  me  to  a 
drop." 

Dr.  Deane  rose  and  took  down  the  square  black  bottle 
and  the  diminutive  wine-glass  beside  it.  Half-filling  the 
latter,  —  a  thimble-full  in  verity,  —  he  drank  it  in  two  or 
three  delicate  little  sips,  puckering  his  large  under-lip  to 
receive  them. 

"  It 's  right  to  have  the  best,  Friend  Barton,"  he  said, 
« there  's  more  life  in  it ! "  as  he  filled  the  glass  to  the 
brim  and  held  it  to  the  slit  in  the  old  man's  face. 

The  latter  eagerly  drew  off  the  top  fulness,  and  then 
seized  the  glass  in  his  shaky  hand.  "  Can  help  myself."  he 
croaked  —  "  don't  need  waitin'  on  ;  not  so  bad  as  that !  " 

His  color  presently  grew,  and  his  neck  assumed  a  partial 
steadiness.  "  What  news,  what  news  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You 
gather  up  a  plenty  in  your  goin's-around.  It 's  little  I  get, 
except  the  bones,  after  they  've  been  gnawed  over  by  the 
whole  neighborhood." 

"  There  is  not  much  now,  I  believe,"  Dr.  Deane  observed. 


136  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

"  Jacob  and  Leah  Gilpin  have  another  boy,  but  thee  hardly 
knows  them,  I  think.  William  Byerly  died  last  week  in 
Birmingham  ;  thee  's  heard  of  him,  —  he  had  a  wonderful 
gift  of  preaching.  They  say  Maryland  cattle  will  be  cheap, 
this  fall :  does  Alfred  intend  to  fatten  many  ?  I  saw  him 
riding  towards  New- Garden." 

"  I  guess  he  will,"  the  old  man  answered,  —  "  must  make 
somethin'  out  o'  the  farm.  That  pastur'-bottom  ought  to 
bring  more  than  it  does." 

"  Alfred  does  n't  look  to  want  for  much,"  the  Doctor  con 
tinued.  "  It 's  a  fine  farm  he  has." 

"Me,  I  say ! "  old  Barton  exclaimed,  bringing  down  the 
end  of  his  stick  upon  the  floor.  "  The  farm  's  mine  ! " 

"  But  it 's  the  same  thing,  is  n't  it  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Deane, 
in  his  cheeriest  voice  and  with  his  pleasantest  smile. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  gave  an  inco 
herent  grunt,  the  meaning  of  which  the  Doctor  found  it 
impossible  to  decipher,  and  presently,  with  a  cunning  leer, 
said.  — 

"Is  all  your  property  the  same  thing  as  your  daugh 
ter's?" 

"  Well  —  well,"  replied  the  Doctor,  softly  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  I  should  hope  so — yes,  I  should  hope  so." 

"  Besides  what  she  has  in  her  own  right  ?  " 

"  Oh,  thee  knows  that  will  be  hers  without  my  disposal. 
What  I  should  do  for  her  would  be  apart  from  that.  I  am 
not  likely,  at  my  time  of  life,  to  marry  again  —  but  we  are 
led  by  the  Spirit,  thee  knows ;  we  cannot  say,  I  will  do 
thus  and  so,  and  these  and  such  things  shall  happen,  and 
those  and  such  other  shall  not." 

"  Ay,  that 's  my  rule,  too,  Doctor,"  said  the  old  man,  after 
a  pause,  during  which  he  had  intently  watched  his  visitor, 
from  under  his  wrinkled  eyelids. 

"  I  thought,"  the  Doctor  resumed,  "  thee  was  pretty  safe 
against  another  marriage,  at  any  rate,  and  thee  had  per 
haps  made  up  thy  mind  about  providing  for  thy  children. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  137 

It 's  better  for  us  old  men  to  have  our  houses  set  in  order, 
that  we  may  spare  ourselves  worry  and  anxiety  of  mind. 
Elisha  is  already  established  in  his  own  independence,  and 
I  suppose  Ann  will  give  thee  no  particular  trouble  ;  but  if 
Alfred,  now,  should  take  a  notion  to  marry,  he  could  n't, 
thee  sees,  be  expected  to  commit  himself  without  having 
some  idea  of  what  thee  intends  to  do  for  him." 

Dr.  Deane,  having  at  last  taken  up  his  position  and  un 
covered  his  front  of  attack,  waited  for  the  next  movement 
of  his  adversary.  He  was  even  aware  of  a  slight  profes 
sional  curiosity  to  know  how  far  the  old  man's  keen, 
shrewd,  wary  faculties  had  survived  the  wreck  of  his  body. 

The  latter  nodded  his  head,  and  pressed  the  top  of  his 
hickory  stick  against  his  gums  several  times,  before  he  an 
swered.  He  enjoyed  the  encounter,  though  not  so  sure  of 
its  issue  as  he  would  have  been  ten  years  earlier. 

"  I  'd  do  the  fair  thing,  Doctor ! "  he  finally  exclaimed  ; 
"whatever  it  might  be,  it  'd  be  fair.  Come,  is  n't  that 
enough  ? " 

"  In  a  general  sense,  it  is.  But  we  are  talking  now  as 
neighbors.  We  are  both  old  men,  Friend  Barton,  and  I 
think  we  know  how  to  keep  our  own  counsel.  Let  us  sup 
pose  a  case  —  just  to  illustrate  the  matter,  thee  under 
stands.  Let  us  say  that  Friend  Paxson  —  a  widower,  thee 
knows  —  had  a  daughter  Mary,  who  had  —  well,  a  nice 
little  penny  in  her  own  right,  —  and  that  thy  son  Alfred 
desired  her  in  marriage.  Friend  Paxson,  as  a  prudent 
father,  knowing  his  daughter's  portion,  both  what  it  is  and 
what  it  will  be,  —  he  would  naturally  wish,  in  Mary's  inter 
est,  to  know  that  Alfred  would  not  be  dependent  on  her 
means,  but  that  the  children  they  might  have  would  inherit 
equally  from  both.  Now,  it  strikes  me  that  Friend  Paxson 
would  only  be  right  in  asking  thee  what  thee  would  do  for 
thy  son  —  nay,  that,  to  be  safe,  he  would  want  to  see  some 
evidence  that  would  hold  in  law.  Things  are  so  uncertain, 
and  a  wise  man  guardeth  his  own  household." 


138  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

The  old  man  laughed  until  his  watery  eyes  twinkled. 
"  Friend  Paxson  is  a  mighty  close  and  cautious  one  to  deal 
with,"  he  said.  "  Mayhap  he  'd  like  to  manage  to  have  me 
bound,  and  himself  go  free  ?  " 

"  Thee  's  mistaken,  indeed ! "  Dr.  Deane  protested.  "  He 's 
not  that  kind  of  a  man.  He  only  means  to  do  what 's  right, 
and  to  ask  the  same  security  from  thee,  which  thee  —  I  'm 
sure  of  it,  Friend  Barton!  —  would  expect  him  to  fur 
nish." 

The  old  man  began  to  find  this  illustration  uncomfort 
able  ;  it  was  altogether  one  -  sided.  Dr.  Deane  could 
shelter  himself  behind  Friend  Paxson  and  the  imaginary 
daughter,  but  the  applications  came  personally  home  to 
him.  His  old  patience  had  been  weakened  by  his  isola 
tion  from  the  world,  and  his  habits  of  arbitrary  rule.  He 
knew,  moreover,  the  probable  amount  of  Martha's  fortune, 
and  could  make  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  Doctor's  circum 
stances  ;  but  if  the  settlements  were  to  be  equal,  each  must 
give  his  share  its  highest  valuation  in  order  to  secure  more 
from  the  other.  It  was  a  difficult  game,  because  these 
men  viewed  it  in  the  light  of  a  business  transaction,  and 
each  considered  that  any  advantage  over  the  other  would 
be  equivalent  to  a  pecuniary  gain  on  his  own  part. 

"  No  use  beatin'  about  the  bush,  Doctor,"  the  old  man 
suddenly  said.  "You  don't  care  for  Paxson's  daughter, 
that  never  was ;  why  not  put  your  Martha  in  her  place. 
She  has  a  good  penny,  I  hear  —  five  thousand,  some 
say." 

"  Ten,  every  cent  of  it ! "  exclaimed  Dr.  Deane,  very 
nearly  thrown  off  his  guard.  "  That  is,  she  will  have  it, 
at  twenty-five  ;  and  sooner,  if  she  marries  with  my  consent. 
But  why  does  thee  wish  particularly  to  speak  of  her  ?  " 

"For  the  same  reason  you  talk  about  Alfred.  He 
has  n't  been  about  your  house  lately,  I  s'pose,  hey  ?  " 

The  Doctor  smiled,  dropping  his  eyelids  in  a  very  saga 
cious  way.  "  He  does  seem  drawn  a  little  our  way,  I  must 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  139 

confess  to  thee,"  he  said,  "but  we  can't  always  tell  how 
much  is  meant.  Perhaps  thee  knows  his  mind  better 
than  I  do?" 

"  Mayhap  I  do  —  know  what  it  will  be,  if  /  choose ! 
But  I  don't  begrudge  savin'  that  he  likes  your  girl,  and  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  he  'd  showed  it." 

"  Then  thee  sees,  Friend  Barton."  Dr.  Deane  continued, 
"  that  the  case  is  precisely  like  the  one  I  supposed ;  and 
what  I  would  consider  right  for  Friend  Paxson,  would 
even  be  right  for  myself.  I've  no  doubt  thee  could  do 
more  for  Alfred  than  I  can  do  for  Martha,  and  without 
wrong  to  thy  other  children,  —  Elisha,  as  I  said,  being 
independent,  and  Ann  not  requiring  a  great  deal,  —  and 
the  two  properties  joined  together  would  be  a  credit  to 
us,  and  to  the  neighborhood.  Only,  thee  knows,  there 
must  be  some  legal  assurance  beforehand.  There  is  noth 
ing  certain,  —  even  thy  mind  is  liable  to  change,  —  ah, 
the  mind  of  man  is  an  unstable  thing !  " 

The  Doctor  delivered  these  words  in  his  most  impres 
sive  manner,  uplifting  both  eyes  and  hands. 

The  old  man,  however,  seemed  to  pay  but  little  atten 
tion  to  it  Turning  his  head  on  one  side,  he  said,  in  a 
quick,  sharp  voice  :  "  Time  enough  for  that  when  we  come 
to  it  How 's  the  girl  inclined  ?  Is  the  money  hers,  any 
how,  at  twenty-five,  —  how  old  now  ?  Sure  to  be  a  couple, 
hey  ?  —  settle  that  first ! " 

Dr.  Deane  crossed  his  legs  carefully,  so  as  not  to  crease 
the  cloth  too  much,  laid  his  cane  upon  them,  and  leaned 
back  a  little  in  his  chair.  "  Of  course  I  've  not  spoken  to 
Martha,"  he  presently  said ;  "  I  can  only  say  that  she 
has  n't  set  her  mind  upon  anybody  else,  and  that  is  the 
main  thing.  She  has  followed  my  will  in  all,  except  as  to 
joining  the  Friends,  and  there  I  felt  that  I  could  n't  rightly 
command,  where  the  Spirit  had  not  spoken.  Yes,  the 
money  will  be  hers  at  twenty-five,  —  she  is  twenty-one 
now,  —  but  I  hardly  think  it  necessary  to  take  that  into 


140  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

consideration.  If  thee  can  answer  for  Alfred,  I  think  I 
can  answer  for  her." 

"  The  boy  's  close  about  his  money,"  broke  in  the  old 
man,  with  a  sly,  husky  chuckle.  "  What  he  has,  Doctor, 
you  understand,  goes  toward  balancin'  what  she  has,  afore 
you  come  onto  me,  at  all.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  what  I  'm 
about.  A  good  deal,  off  and  on,  has  -been  got  out  o'  this 
farm,  and  it  has  n't  all  gone  into  my  pockets.  I  've  a  trifle 
put  out,  but  you  can't  expect  me  to  strip  myself  naked,  in 
my  old  days.  But  I  '11  do  what 's  fair  —  I  '11  do  what 's 
fair ! " 

"  There 's  only  this,"  the  Doctor  added,  meditatively, 
"  and  I  want  thee  to  understand,  since  we  've,  somehow 
or  other,  come  to  mention  the  matter,  that  we  'd  better 
have  another  talk,  after  we  've  had  more  time  to  think  of 
it.  Thee  can  make  up  thy  mind,  and  let  me  know  about 
what  thee  '11  do ;  and  I  the  same.  Thee  has  a  starting- 
point  on  my  side,  knowing  the  amount  of  Martha's  fortune 
—  that,  of  course,  thee  must  come  up  to  first,  and  then 
we  '11  see  about  the  rest !  " 

Old-man  Barton  felt  that  he  was  here  brought  up  to  the 
rack.  He  recognized  Dr.  Deane's  advantage,  and  could 
only  evade  it  by  accepting  his  proposition  for  delay.  True, 
he  had  already  gone  over  the  subject,  in  his  lonely,  restless 
broodings  beside  the  window,  but  this  encounter  had  fresh 
ened  and  resuscitated  many  points.  He  knew  that  the 
business  would  be  finally  arranged,  but  nothing  would 
have  induced  him  to  hasten  it.  There  was  a  great  luxury 
in  this  preliminary  skirmishing. 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  he,  "  we  need  n't  hurry.  You  're 
right  there,  Doctor.  I  s'pose  you  won't  do  anything  to 
keep  the  young  ones  apart  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  've  shown  my  own  wishes  very  plainly,  Friend 
Barton.  It  is  necessary  that  Alfred  should  speak  for  him 
self,  though,  and  after  all  we  've  said,  perhaps  it  might  be 
well  if  thee  should  give  him  a  hint.  Thee  must  re- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  141 

member  that  he  has  never  yet  mentioned  the  subject  to 
me." 

Dr.  Deane  thereupon  arose,  smoothed  his  garments,  and 
shook  out,  not  only  sweet  marjoram,  but  lavender,  cloves, 
and  calamus.  His  broad-brimmed  drab  hat  had  never 
left  his  head  during  the  interview.  There  were  steps  on 
the  creaking  floor  overhead,  and  the  Doctor  perceived  that 
the  private  conference  must  now  close.  It  was  nearly  a 
drawn  game,  so  far ;  but  the  chance  of  advantage  was  on 
his  side. 

"  Suppose  I  look  at  thy  arm,  —  in  a  neighborly  way,  of 
course,"  he  said,  approaching  the  old  man's  chair. 

"Never  mind  —  took  the  bean  off  this  mornin'  —  old 
blood,  you  know,  but  lively  yet  Gad,  Doctor !  I  've  not 
felt  so  brisk  for  a  year."  His  eyes  twinkled  so,  under 
their  pufiy  lids,  the  flabby  folds  in  which  his  mouth  ter 
minated  worked  so  curiously,  —  like  those  of  a  bellows, 
where  they  run  together  towards  the  nozzle,  —  and  the 
two  movable  fingers  on  each  hand  opened  and  shut  with 
such  a  menacing,  clutching  motion,  that  for  one  moment 
the  Doctor  felt  a  chill,  uncanny  creep  run  over  his 
nerves. 

"  Brandy  ! "  the  old  man  commanded.  "  I  've  not  talked 
so  much  at  once't  for  months.  You  might  take  a  little 
more,  maybe.  No  ?  well,  you  hardly  need  it  Good 
brandy  's  powerful  dear,  these  times." 

Dr.  Deane  had  too  much  tact  to  accept  the  grudging 
invitation.  After  the  old  man  had  drunk,  he  carefully 
replaced  the  bottle  and  glass  on  their  accustomed  shelf, 
and  disposed  himself  to  leave.  On  the  whole,  he  was  well 
satisfied  with  the  afternoon's  work,  not  doubting  but  that 
he  had  acted  the  part  of  a  tender  and  most  considerate 
parent  towards  his  daughter. 

Before  they  met,  she  also  had  disposed  of  her  future, 
but  in  a  very  different  way. 

Miss  Ann  descended  the  stairs  in  time  to  greet  the  Doc- 


142  THE   STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

tor  before  his  departure.  She  would  bave  gladly  retained 
him  to  tea,  as  a  little  relief  to  tbe  loneliness  and  weariness 
of  tbe  day ;  but  sbe  never  dared  to  give  an  invitation  ex 
cept  wben  it  seconded  her  father's,  which,  in  the  present 
case,  was  wanting. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  143 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

DOUBTS    AND    SURMISES. 

GILBERT'S  voice,  sharpened  by  his  sudden  and  mortal 
fear,  recalled  Mary  Potter  to  consciousness.  After  she 
had  drunk  of  the  cup  of  water  which  he  brought,  she  looked 
slowly  and  wearily  around  the  kitchen,  as  if  some  instinct 
taught  her  to  fix  her  thoughts  on  the  signs  and  appliances 
of  her  every-day  life,  rather  than  allow  them  to  return  to 
the  pang  which  had  overpowered  her.  Little  by  little  she 
recovered  her  calmness  and  a  portion  of  her  strength,  and 
at  last,  noticing  her  son's  anxious  face,  she  spoke. 

"  I  have  frightened  you,  Gilbert ;  but  there  is  no  occa 
sion  for  it.  I  was  n't  rightly  prepared  for  what  you  had 
to  say — and  —  and  —  but,  please,  don't  let  us  talk  any 
more  about  it  to-night.  Give  me  a  little  time  to  think  — 
if  I  can  think.  I  'm  afraid  it 's  but  a  sad  home  I  'm  making 
for  you,  and  sure  it 's  a  sad  load  I  've  put  upon  you,  my 
poor  boy !  But  oh,  try,  Gilbert,  try  to  be  patient  a  little 
while  longer,  —  it  can't  be  for  long,  —  for  I  begin  to  see 
now  that  I  've  worked  out  my  fault,  and  that  the  Lord  in 
Heaven  owes  me  justice  !  " 

She  clenched  her  hands  wildly,  and  rose  to  her  feet 
Her  steps  tottered,  and  he  sprang  to  her  support. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  let  me  help  you  to  your  room.  I  '11 
not  speak  of  this  again  ;  I  would  n't  have  spoken  to-night, 
if  I  had  mistrusted  that  it  could  give  you  trouble.  Have 
no  fear  that  I  can  ever  be  impatient  again ;  patience  is 
easy  to  me  now  !  " 

He  spoke  kindly  and  cheerfully,  registering  a  vow  in  his 


144  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

heart  that  his  lips  should  henceforth  be  closed  upon  the 
painful  theme,  until  his  mother's  release  (whatever  it  was 
and  whenever  it  might  come)  should  open  them. 

But  competent  as  he  felt  in  that  moment  to  bear  the 
delay  cheerfully,  and  determined  as  he  was  to  cast  no  addi 
tional  weight  on  his  mother's  heart,  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
compose  his  thoughts,  as  he  lay  in  the  dusky,  starlit  bed 
room  up-stairs.  The  events  of  the  day,  and  their  recent  con 
sequences,  had  moved  his  strong  nature  to  its  very  foun 
dations.  A  chaos  of  joy,  wonder,  doubt,  and  dread  surged 
through  him.  Over  and  over  he  recalled  the  sweet  pres 
sure  of  Martha  Deane's  lip,  the  warm  curve  of  her  bosom, 
the  dainty,  delicate  firmness  of  her  hand.  Was  this  — 
could  this  possession  really  be  his  ?  In  his  mother's  mys 
terious  secret  there  lay  an  element  of  terror.  He  could 
not  guess  why  the  revelation  of  his  fortunate  love  should 
agitate  her  so  fearfully,  unless  —  and  the  suspicion  gave 
him  a  shock  —  her  history  were  in  some  way  involved  with 
that  of  Martha  Deane. 

This  thought  haunted  and  perplexed  him,  continually 
returning  to  disturb  the  memory  of  those  holy  moments  in 
the  twilight  dell,  and  to  ruffle  the  bright  current  of  joy 
which  seemed  to  gather  up  and  sweep  away  with  it  all  the 
forces  of  his  life.  Any  fate  but  to  lose  her,  he  said  to 
himself;  let  the  shadow  fall  anywhere,  except  between 
them !  There  would  be  other  troubles,  he  foresaw,  —  the 
opposition  of  her  father ;  the  rage  and  hostility  of  Alfred 
Barton ;  possibly,  when  the  story  became  known  (as  it 
must  be  in  the  end),  the  ill-will  or  aversion  of  the  neigh 
borhood.  Against  all  these  definite  and  positive  evils,  he 
felt  strong  and  tolerably  courageous,  but  the  Something 
which  evidently  menaced  him  through  his  mother  made 
him  shrink  with  a  sense  of  cowardice. 

Hand  in  hand  with  this  dread  he  went  into  the  world  of 
sleep.  He  stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  hill  behind  Fal 
coner's  farm-house,  and  saw  Martha  beckoning  to  him  from 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  145 

the  hill  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley.  They  stretched 
and  clasped  hands  through  the  intervening  space ;  the  hills 
sank  away,  and  they  found  themselves  suddenly  below,  on 
the  banks  of  the  creek.  He  threw  his  arms  around  her, 
but  she  drew  back,  and  then  he  saw  that  it  was  Betsy  Lav 
ender,  who  said :  "  I  am  your  father  —  did  you  never 
guess  it  before  ?  "  Down  the  road  came  Dr.  Deane  and 
his  mother,  walking  arm  in  arm ;  their  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him,  4)ut  they  did  not  speak.  Then  he  heard  Martha's 
voice,  saying  :  u  Gilbert,  why  did  you  tell  Alfred  Barton  ? 
Nobody  must  know  that  I  am  engaged  to  both  of  you." 
Betsy  Lavender  said :  "  He  can  only  marry  with  my  con 
sent —  Mary  Potter  has  nothing  to  do  with  it."  Martha 
then  came  towards  him  smiling,  and  said :  "  I  will  not  send 
back  your  saddle-girth  —  see,  I  am  wearing  it  as  a  belt !  " 
He  took  hold  of  the  buckle  and  drew  her  nearer ;  she 
began  to  weep,  and  they  were  suddenly  standing  side  by 
side,  in  a  dark  room,  before  his  dead  mother,  in  her  coffin. 

This  dream,  absurd  and  incoherent  as  it  was,  made  a 
strange  impression  upon  Gilbert's  mind.  He  was  not  su 
perstitious,  but  in  spite  of  himself  the  idea  became  rooted 
in  his  thoughts  that  the  truth  of  his  own  parentage  affected, 
in  some  way,  some  member  of  the  Deane  family.  He 
taxed  his  memory  in  vain  for  words  or  incidents  which 
might  help  him  to  solve  this  doubt.  Something  told  him 
that  his  obligation  to  his  mother  involved  the  understand 
ing  that  he  would  not  even  attempt  to  discover  her  secret ; 
but  he  could  not  prevent  his  thoughts  from  wandering 
around  it,  and  making  blind  guesses  as  to  the  vulnerable 
point. 

Among  these  guesses  came  one  which  caused  him  to 
shudder ;  he  called  it  impossible,  incredible,  and  resolutely 
barred  it  from  his  mind.  But  with  all  his  resolution,  it 
only  seemed  to  wait  at  a  little  distance,  as  if  constantly 
seeking  an  opportunity  to  return.  What  if  Dr.  Deane 
were  his  own  father  ?  In  that  case  Martha  would  be  his 
10 


146  THE  STORY  OF   KENNETT. 

half-sister,  and  the  stain  of  illegitimacy  would  rest  on  her, 
not  on  him  !  There  was  ruin  and  despair  in  the  suppo 
sition  ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  he  asked  himself  why  should 
the  fact  of  his  love  throw  his  mother  into  a  swoon  '  Among 
the  healthy,  strong-nerved  people  of  Kennett  such  a  thing 
as  a  swoon  was  of  the  rarest  occurrence,  and  it  suggested 
some  terrible  cause  to  Gilbert's  mind.  It  was  sometimes 
hard  for  him  to  preserve  his  predetermined  patient,  cheer 
ful  demeanor  in  his  mother's  presence,  but  he  tried  .bravely, 
and  succeeded. 

Although  the  harvest  was  well  over,  there  was  still  much 
work  to  do  on  the  farm,  in  order  that  the  month  of  October 
might  be  appropriated  to  hauling.  —  the  last  time.  Gilbert 
hoped,  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  resort  to  this  source 
of  profit  Though  the  price  of  grain  was  sure  to  decline, 
on  account  of  the  extraordinary  harvest  the  quantity  would 
make  up  for  this  deficiency.  So  far,  his  estimates  had 
been  verified.  A  good  portion  of  the  money  was  already 
on  hand,  and  his  coveted  freedom  from  debt  in  the  follow 
ing  spring  became  now  tolerably  secure.  His  course,  in 
this  respect,  was  in  strict  accordance  with  the  cautious, 
plodding,  conscientious  habits  of  the  community  in  which 
he  lived.  They  were  satisfied  to  advance  steadily  and 
slowly,  never  establishing  a  new  mark  until  the  old  one 
had  been  reached. 

Gilbert  was  impatient  to  see  Martha  again,  not  so  much 
for  the  delight  of  love,  as  from  a  sense  of  the  duty  which 
he  owed  to  her.  His  mother  had  not  answered  his  ques 
tion.  —  possibly  not  even  heard  it  —  and  he  did  not  dare 
to  approach  her  with  it  again.  But  so  much  as  he  knew 
might  be  revealed  to  the  wife  of  his  heart ;  of  that  he  was 
sure.  If  she  could  but  share  his  confidence  in  his  mother  s 
words,  and  be  equally  patient  to  await  the  solution,  it  would 
give  their  relation  a  new  sweetness,  an  added  sanctity  and 
trust 

He  made  an  errand  to  Fairthorn's  at  the  close  of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  147 

week,  hoping  that  chance  might  befriend  him,  but  almost 
determined,  in  any  case,  to  force  an  interview.  The  dread 
he  had  trampled  down  still  hung  around  him,  and  it  seemed 
that  Martha's  presence  might  dissipate  it.  Something,  at 
least,  he  might  learn  concerning  Dr.  Deane's  family,  and 
here  his  thoughts  at  once  reverted  to  Miss  Betsy  Laven 
der.  In  her  he  had  the  true  friend,  the  close  mouth,  the 
brain  crammed  with  family  intelligence  ! 

The  Fairthorns  were  glad  to  see  their  "  boy,"  as  the  old 
woman  still  called  him.  Joe  and  Jake  threw  their  brown 
legs  over  the  barn-yard  fence  and  clamored  for  a  ride  upon 
Roger.  "  Only  along  the  level,  t'other  side  o'  the  big  hill, 
Gilbert !  "  said  Joe,  whereupon  the  two  boys  punched  each 
other  in  the  sides  and  nearly  smothered  with  wicked  laugh 
ter.  Gilbert  understood  them ;  he  shook  his  head,  and 
said  :  "  You  rascals,  I  think  I  see  you  doing  that  again  !  " 
But  he  turned  away  his  face,  to  conceal  a  smile  at  the 
recollection. 

It  was,  truly,  a  wicked  trick.  The  boys  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  taking  the  farm-horses  out  of  the  field  and 
riding  them  up  and  down  the  Unionville  road.  It  was 
their  habit,  as  soon  as  they  had  climbed  "  the  big  hill,"  to 
use  stick  and  voice  with  great  energy,  force  the  animals 
into  a  gallop,  and  so  dash  along  the  level.  Very  soon,  the 
horses  knew  what  was  expected  of  them,  and  whenever 
they  came  abreast  of  the  great  chestnut-tree  on  the  top  of 
the  hill,  they  would  start  off  as  if  possessed.  If  any  busi 
ness  called  Farmer  Fairthorn  to  the  Street  Road,  or  up 
Marlborough  way,  Joe  and  Jake,  dancing  with  delight, 
would  dart  around  the  barn,  gain  the  wooded  hollow,  climb 
the  big  hill  behind  the  lime-kiln,  and  hide  themselves 
under  the  hedge,  at  the  commencement  of  the  level  road. 
Here  they  could  watch  their  father,  as  his  benign,  unsus 
pecting  face  came  in  sight,  mounting  the  hill,  either  upon 
the  gray  mare,  Bonnie,  or  the  brown  gelding,  Peter.  As 
the  horse  neared  the  chestnut-tree,  they  fairly  shook  with 


148  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

eager  expectancy  —  then  came  the  start,  the  astonishment 
of  the  old  man,  his  frantic  "  Whoa,  there,  whoa  !  "  his  hat 
soaring  off  on  the  wind,  his  short,  stout  body  bouncing  in 
the  saddle,  as,  half-unseated,  he  clung  with  one  hand  to 
the  mane  and  the  other  to  the  bridle  !  —  while  the  wicked 
boys,  after  breathlessly  watching  him  out  of  sight,  rolled 
over  and  over  on  the  grass,  shrieking  and  yelling  in  a 
perfect  luxury  of  fun. 

Then  they  knew  that  a  test  would  come,  and  prepared 
themselves  to  meet  it.  When,  at  dinner,  Farmer  Fair- 
thorn  turned  to  his  wife  and  said :  "  Mammy,"  (so  he  al 
ways  addressed  her)  "  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
Bonnie ;  why,  she  came  nigh  runnin'  off  with  me  !  "  —  Joe, 
being  the  oldest  and  boldest,  would  look  up  in  well-af 
fected  surprise,  and  ask,  "  Why,  how,  Daddy  ?  "  while  Jake 
would  bend  down  his  head  and  whimper,  —  "  Somethin'  's 
got  into  my  eye."  Yet  the  boys  were  very  good-hearted 
fellows,  at  bottom,  and  we  are  sorry  that  we  must  chron 
icle  so  many  things  to  their  discredit. 

Sally  Fairthorn  met  Gilbert  in  her  usual  impetuous 
way.  She  was  glad  to  see  him,  but  she  could  not  help 
saying :  "  Well,  have  you  got  your  tongue  yet,  Gilbert  ? 
Why,  you  're  growing  to  be  as  queer  as  Dick's  hat-band  ! 
I  don't  know  any  more  where  to  find  you,  or  how  to  place 
you ;  whatever  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Sally,"  he  answered,  with  something  of  his 
old  playfulness,  "  nothing  except  that  the  pears  were  very 
good.  How  's  Mark  ?  " 

"  Mark  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  a  very  well  assumed  sneer. 
"  As  if  I  kept  an  account  of  Mark's  comings  and  goings  !  " 
But  she  could  not  prevent  an  extra  color  from  rising  into 
her  face. 

"I  wish  you  did,  Sally,"  Gilbert  gravely  remarked. 
"  Mark  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  one  of  my  best  friends,  and 
he  'd  be  all  the  better,  if  a  smart,  sensible  girl  like  your 
self  would  care  a  little  for  him." 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  149 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  and  Sally,  with  a  hasty 
"  I  '11  tell  mother  you  're  here !  "  darted  into  the  house. 

Gilbert  was  careful  not  to  ask  many  questions  during  his 
visit ;  but  Sally's  rattling  tongue  supplied  him  with  all  he 
would  have  been  likely  to  learn,  in  any  case.  She  had 
found  Martha  at  home  the  day  before,  and  had  talked  about 
him,  Gilbert.  Martha  had  n't  noticed  anything  "queer" 
in  his  manner,  whereupon  she,  Sally,  had  said  that  Martha 
was  growing  "  queer  "  too  ;  then  Martha  remarked  that  — 
but  here  Sally  found  that  she  had  been  talking  altogether 
too  fast,  so  she  bit  her  tongue  and  blushed  a  little.  The 
most  important  piece  of  news,  however,  was  that  Miss  Lav 
ender  was  then  staying  at  Dr.  Deane's. 

On  his  way  to  the  village,  Gilbert  chose  the  readiest  and 
simplest  way  of  accomplishing  his  purpose.  He  would  call 
on  Betsy  Lavender,  and  ask  her  to  arrange  her  time  so 
that  she  could  visit  his  mother  during  his  approaching  ab 
sence  from  home.  Leaving  his  horse  at  the  hitching-post 
in  front  of  the  store,  he  walked  boldly  across  the  road  and 
knocked  at  Dr.  Deane's  door. 

The  Doctor  was  absent.  Martha  and  Miss  Lavender 
were  in  the  sitting-room,  and  a  keen,  sweet  throb  in  his 
blood  responded  to  the  voice  that  bade  him  enter. 

"  Gilbert  Potter,  I  '11  be  snaked!  "  exclaimed  Miss  Lav 
ender,  jumping  up  with  a  start  that  overturned  her  foot 
stool. 

'•  Well,  Gilbert !  "  and  "  Well,  Martha  ! "  were  the  only 
words  the  lovers  exchanged,  on  meeting,  but  their  hands 
were  quick  to  clasp  and  loath  to  loose.  Martha  Deane  was 
too  clear-headed  to  be  often  surprised  by  an  impulse  of  the 
heart,  but  when  the  latter  experience  came  to  her,  she 
never  thought  of  doubting  its  justness.  She  had  not  been 
fully,  vitally  aware  of  her  love  for  Gilbert  until  the  day 
when  he  declared  it,  and  now,  in  memory,  the  two  circum 
stances  seemed  to  make  but  one  fact.  The  warmth,  the 
beauty,  the  spiritual  expansion  which  accompany  love  had 


150  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

since  then  dawned  upon  her  nature  in  their  true  signifi 
cance.  Proudly  and  cautiously  as  she  would  have  guarded 
her  secret  from  an  intrusive  eye,  just  as  frank,  tender,  and 
brave  was  she  to  reveal  every  emotion  of  her  heart  to  her 
lover.  She  was  thoroughly  penetrated  with  the  conviction 
of  his  truth,  of  the  integral  nobility  of  his  manhood ;  and 
these,  she  felt,  were  the  qualities  her  heart  had  uncon 
sciously  craved.  Her  mind  was  made  up  inflexibly ;  it  re 
joiced  in  his  companionship,  it  trusted  in  his  fidelity,  and 
if  she  considered  conventional  difficulties,  it  was  only  to 
estimate  how  they  could  most  speedily  be  overthrown. 
Martha  Deane  was  in  advance  of  her  age,  —  or,  at  least,  of 
the  community  in  which  she  lived. 

They  could  only  exchange  common-places,  of  course,  in 
Miss  Lavender's  presence ;  and  perhaps  they  were  not 
aware  of  the  gentle,  affectionate  way  in  which  they  spoke 
of  the  weather  and  similar  topics.  Miss  Lavender  was ; 
her  eyes  opened  widely,  then  nearly  closed  with  an  expres 
sion  of  superhuman  wisdom ;  she  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow  and  nodded  to  the  lilac-bush,  then  exclaiming  in  des 
perate  awkwardness  :  "  Goodness  me,  I  must  have  a  bit  o' 
sage  !  "  made  for  the  garden,  with  long  strides. 

Gilbert  was  too  innocent  to  suspect  the  artifice  —  not  so 
Martha.  But  while  she  would  have  foiled  the  inference  of 
any  other  woman,  she  accepted  Betsy's  without  the  least 
embarrassment,  and  took  Gilbert's  hand  again  in  her  own 
before  the  door  had  fairly  closed. 

"  O  Martha ! "  he  cried,  "  if  I  could  but  see  you  oftener 
—  but  for  a  minute,  every  day!  But  there  —  I  won't  be 
impatient.  I  've  thought  of  you  ever  since,  and  I  ask  my 
self,  the  first  thing  when  I  wake,  morning  after  morning,  is 
it  really  true  ?  " 

"  And  I  say  to  myself,  every  morning,  it  is  true,"  she  an 
swered.  Her  lovely  blue  eyes  smiled  upon  him  with  a 
blissful  consent,  so  gentle  and  so  perfect,  that  he  would  fain 
have  stood  thus  and  spoken  no  word  more. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  151 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  thought  of  his  duty, 
"I  have  something  to  say.  You  can  hear  it  now.  My 
mother  declares  that  I  am  her  lawful  son,  born  in  wedlock 
—  she  gave  me  her  solemn  word  —  but  more  than  that  she 
will  not  allow  me  to  ask,  saying  she  's  bound  for  a  time, 
and  something,  I  don't  know  what,  must  happen  before  she 
can  set  herself  right  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  I  believe 
her,  Martha,  and  I  want  that  you  should  believe  her,  for 
her  sake  and  for  mine.  I  can't  make  things  clear  to  you, 
now,  because  they  're  not  clear  to  myself;  only,  what  she 
has  declared  is  and  must  be  true  !  I  am  not  base-born, 
and  it  '11  be  made  manifest,  I  'm  sure  ;  the  Lord  will  open 
her  mouth  in  his  own  good  time  —  and  until  then,  we  must 
wait !  Will  you  wait  with  me  ?  " 

He  spoke  earnestly  and  hurriedly,  and  his  communica 
tion  was  so  unexpected  that  she  scarcely  comprehended  its 
full  import.  But  for  his  sake,  she  dared  not  hesitate  to 
answer. 

"  Can  you  ask  it,  Gilbert  ?  Whatever  your  mother  de 
clares  to  you,  must  be  true  ;  yet  I  scarcely  understand  it." 

"  Nor  can  I !  I  've  wearied  my  brains,  trying  to  guess 
why  she  can't  speak,  and  what  it  is  that  '11  give  her  the  lib 
erty  at  last.  I  dare  n't  ask  her  more  —  she  fainted  dead 
away,  the  last  time." 

"  Strange  things  sometimes  happen  in  this  world,"  said 
Martha,  with  a  grave  tenderness,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  "  and  this  seems  to  be  one  of  the  strangest.  I  am 
glad  you  have  told  me,  Gilbert,  —  it  will  make  so  much 
difference  to  you !  " 

"  So  it  don't  take  you  from  me,  Martha,"  he  groaned,  in 
a  return  of  his  terrible  dread. 

«  Only  Death  can  do  that  —  and  then  but  for  a  little 
while." 

Here  Miss  Betsy  Lavender  made  her  appearance,  but 
without  the  sage. 

"  How  far  a  body  can  see,  Martha,"  she  exclaimed,  "  since 


152  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

the  big  gum-tree  's  been  cut  down.  It  lays  open  the  sight 
o'  the  road  across  the  creek,  and  I  seen  your  father  ridin' 
down  the  hill,  as  plain  as  could  be ! " 

"  Betsy,"  said  Gilbert,  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  com 
ing  down  our  way." 

"  Our  way.  Did  you  ?  I  see  your  horse  hitched  over  at 
the  store.  I  've  an  arrand,  —  sewin'-tjiread  and  pearl  but 
tons,  —  and  so  I  '11  git  my  bonnet  and  you  can  tell  me  on 
the  way." 

The  lovers  said  farewell,  and  Betsy  Lavender  accompa 
nied  Gilbert,  proposing  to  walk  a  little  way  with  him  and 
get  the  articles  on  her  return. 

"  Gilbert  Potter,"  she  said,  when  they  were  out  of  sight 
and  ear-shot  of  the  village,  "  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  've 
got  eyes  in  my  head.  1  'm  a  safe  body,  as  you  can  see, 
though  it  may  n't  seem  the  proper  thing  in  me  to  say  it, 
but  all  other  folks  is  n't,  so  look  out !  " 

"  Betsy ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  seem  to  know  everything 
about  everybody  —  at  least,  you  know  what  I  am,  perhaps 
better  than  I  do  myself;  now  suppose  I  grant  you're  right, 
what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  Think  of  it  ?  Go  'long !  —  you  know  what  you  want 
me  to  say,  that  there  never  was  such  a  pair  o'  lovyers  under 
the  firmament !  Let  my  deeds  prove  what  I  think,  say  I 
—  for  here  's  a  case  where  deeds  is  wanted  ! " 

"  You  can  help  me,  Betsy  —  you  can  help  me  now  !  Do 
you  know  —  can  you  guess  —  who  was  my  father  ?  " 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  was  her  surprised  exclamation  —  "  No,  I 
don't,  and  that 's  the  fact." 

"  Who  was  Martha  Deane's  mother  ?  " 

"A  Blake  —  Naomi,  one  o'  the  Birmingham  Blakes, 
and  a  nice  woman  she  was,  too.  I  was  at  her  weddin',  and 
I  helped  nuss  her  when  Martha  was  born." 

"  Had  Dr.  Deane  been  married  before  ?  " 

"Married  before?  Well— no!"  Here  Miss  Betsy 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  put  upon  her  guard.  "  Not  to  that 


THE   STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  153 

extent,  I  should  say.  However,  it 's  neither  here  nor  there. 
Good  lack,  boy  ! "  she  cried,  noticing  a  deadly  paleness  on 
Gilbert's  face  — "  a-h-h-h,  I  begin  to  understand  now. 
Look  here,  Gilbert !  Git  that  nonsense  out  o'  y'r  head,  jist 
as  soon  as  you  can.  There  's  enough  o'  trouble  ahead, 
without  borrowin'  any  more  out  o'  y'r  wanderin'  wits.  I 
don't  deny  but  what  I  was  holdin'  back  something  but  it 's 
another  thing  as  ever  was.  I  '11  speak  you  clear  o'  your 
misdoubtin's,  if  that 's  y'r  present  bother.  You  don't  feel 
quite  as  much  like  a  live  corpse,  now,  I  reckon,  hey  ?  " 

"  O,  Betsy ! "  he  said,  ;-  if  you  knew  how  I  have  been 
perplexed,  you  would  n't  wonder  at  my  fancies  !  " 

"  I  can  fancy  all  that,  my  boy,"  she  gently  answered, 
"  and  I  '11  tell  you  another  thing,  Gilbert  —  your  mother 
has  a  heavy  secret  on  her  mind,  and  I  rather  guess  it  con 
cerns  your  father.  Xo  —  don't  look  so  eager-like  —  I  don't 
know  it.  All  I  do  know  is  that  you  were  born  in  Phildel- 

pny-" 

"  In  Philadelphia  !     I  never  heard  that." 

"  AVell  —  it  's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  've  had  my 
hands  too  full  to  spy  out  other  people's  affairs,  but  many 
a  thing  has  come  to  me  in  a  nateral  way,  or  half-unbe 
known.  You  can't  do  better  than  leave  all  sich  wild 
guesses  and  misdoubtin's  to  me,  that 's  better  able  to  handle 
'em.  Not  that  I  'm  a-goin'  to  preach  and  declare  anything 
until  I  know  the  rights  of  it,  whatever  and  wherever.  Well, 
as  I  was  sayin'  —  for  there  's  Beulah  Green  comin'  up  the 
road,  and  you  must  git  your  usual  face  onto  you,  though 
Goodness  knows,  mine  's  so  crooked,  I  've  often  said  nothin' 
short  o'  Death  '11  ever  make  much  change  in  it  —  but  never 
mind,  I  '11  go  down  a  few  days  to  your  mother,  when  you  're 
off,  though  I  don't  promise  to  do  much,  except,  maybe, 
cheer  her  up  a  bit ;  but  we  '11  see,  and  so  remember  me  to 
her,  and  good-bye !  " 

With  these  words  and  a  sharp,  bony  wring  of  his  hand, 
Miss  Betsy  strode  rapidly  back  to  the  village.  It  did  not 


154  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

escape  Gilbert's  eye  that,  strongly  as  she  had  pronounced 
against  his  secret  fear,  the  detection  of  it  had  agitated  her. 
She  had  spoken  hurriedly,  and  hastened  away  as  if  desir 
ing  to  avoid  further  questions.  He  could  not  banish  the 
suspicion  that  she  knew  something  which  might  affect  his 
fortune  ;  but  she  had  not  forbidden  his  love  for  Martha  — 
she  had  promised  to  help  him,  and  that  was  a  great  conso 
lation.  His  cheerfulness,  thenceforth,  was  not  assumed, 
and  he  rejoiced  to  see  a  very  faint,  shadowy  reflection  of  it, 
at  times,  in  his  mother's  face. 


THE  STORY   OF  KENXETT.  155 


CHAPTER   XV. 

ALFRED    BARTON    BETWEEN    TWO    FIRES. 

FOR  some  days  after  Dr.  Deane's  visit,  Old-man  Barton 
was  a  continual  source  of  astonishment  to  his  son  Alfred 
and  his  daughter  Ann.  The  signs  of  gradual  decay  which 
one  of  them,  at  least,  had  watched  with  the  keenest  inter 
est,  had  suddenly  disappeared  ;  he  was  brighter,  sharper, 
more  talkative  than  at  any  time  within  the  previous  five 
years.  The  almost  worn-out  machinery  of  his  life  seemed 
to  have  been  mysteriously  repaired,  whether  by  Dr.  Deane's 
tinkering,  or  by  one  of  those  freaks  of  Nature  which  some 
times  bring  new  teeth  and  hair  to  an  aged  head,  neither 
the  son  nor  the  daughter  could  guess.  To  the  former  this 
awakened  activity  of  the  old  man's  brain  was  not  a  little 
annoying.  He  had  been  obliged  to  renew  his  note  for  the 
money  borrowed  to  replace  that  which  had  been  transferred 
to  Sandy  Flash,  and  in  the  mean  time  was  concocting  an 
ingenious  device  by  which  the  loss  should  not  entirely  fall 
on  his  own  half-share  of  the  farm-profits.  He  could  not 
have  endured  his  father's  tyranny  without  the  delight  of 
the  cautious  and  wary  revenges  of  this  kind  which  he 
sometimes  allowed  himself  to  take. 

Another  circumstance,  which  gave  him  great  uneasiness, 
was  this  :  the  old  man  endeavored  in  various  ways,  both 
direct  and  indirect,  to  obtain  knowledge  of  the  small  invest 
ments  which  he  had  made  from  time  to  time.  The  most 
of  these  had  been,  through  the  agency  of  the  old  lawyer  at 
Chester,  consolidated  into  a  first-class  mortgage ;  but  it  was 
Alfred's  interest  to  keep  his  father  in  ignorance  of  the 


156  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

other  sums,  not  because  of  their  importance,  but  because  of 
their  insignificance.  He  knew  that  the  old  man's  declara 
tion  was  true, — "  The  more  you  have,  the  more  you  '11  get ! " 

The  following  Sunday,  as  he  was  shaving  himself  at  the 
back  kitchen-window,  —  Ann  being  up-stairs,  at  her  thread 
bare  toilet,  —  Old  Barton,  who  had  been  silent  during 
breakfast,  suddenly  addressed  him  : 

"  Well,  boy,  how  stands  the  matter  now  ?  " 

The  son  knew  very  well  what  was  meant,  but  he  thought 
it  best  to  ask,  with  an  air  of  indifference, 

"  What  matter,  Daddy  ?  " 

"  What  matter,  eh  ?  The  colt's  lame  leg,  or  the  farrow 
o'  the  big  sow  ?  Gad,  boy  !  don't  you  ever  think  about  the 
gal,  except  when  I  put  it  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that ! "  exclaimed  Alfred,  with  a  smirk  of  well- 
assumed  satisfaction  —  "  that,  indeed  !  Well,  I  think  I  may 
say,  Daddy,  that  all 's  right  in  that  quarter." 

"  Spoken  to  her  yet  ?  " 

"  N-no,  not  right  out,  that  is ;  but  since  other  folks  have 
found  out  what  I  'm  after,  I  guess  it 's  plain  enough  to  her. 
And  a  good  sign  is,  that  she  plays  a  little  shy." 

"  Should  n't  wonder,"  growled  the  old  man.  "  Seems  to 
me  you  play  a  little  shy,  too.  Have  to  take  it  in  my  own 
hands,  if  it  ever  comes  to  anything." 

"  Oh,  it  is  n't  at  all  necessary ;  I  can  do  my  own  court 
ing,"  Alfred  replied,  as  he  wiped  his  razor  and  laid  it  away. 

"  Do  it,  then,  boy,  in  short  order !  You  're  too  old  to 
stand  in  need  o'  much  billin'  and  cooin'  —  but  the  gal  's 
rayther  young,  and  may  expect  it  —  and  I  s'pose  it 's  the 
way.  But  I  'd  sooner  you  'd  step  up  to  the  Doctor,  bein' 
as  I  can  only  take  him  when  he  comes  here  to  me  loaded 
and  primed.  He  's  mighty  cute  and  sharp,  but  if  you  Ve 
got  any  gumption,  we  '11  be  even  with  him." 

Alfred  turned  around  quickly  and  looked  at  his  father. 

'k  Ay,  boy,  I  've  had  one  bout  with  him,  last  Sunday,  and 
there  's  more  to  come." 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  157 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Set  yourself  down  on  that  cheer,  and  keep  your  head 
straight  a  bit,  so  that  what  goes  into  one  ear,  don't  fly  out 
at  the  t'other." 

"While  Alfred,  with  a  singular  expression  of  curiosity  and 
distrust,  obeyed  this  command,  the  old  man  deliberated,  for 
the  last  time,  on  the  peculiar  tactics  to  be  adopted,  so  that 
his  son  should  be  made  an  ally,  as  against  Dr.  Deane,  and 
yet  be  prevented  from  becoming  a  second  foe,  as  against 
his  own  property.  For  it  was  very  evident  that  while  it 
was  the  father's  interest  to  exaggerate  the  son's  presumed 
wealth,  it  was  the  latter's  interest  to  underrate  it.  Thus  a 
third  element  came  into  play,  making  this  a  triangular 
game  of  avarice.  If  Alfred  could  have  understood  his  true 
position,  he  would  have  been  more  courageous ;  but  his 
father  had  him  at  a  decided  advantage. 

"  Hark  ye,  boy  !  "  said  he,  "  I  've  waited  e'en  about  long 
enough,  and  it 's  time  this  thing  was  either  a  hit  or  a,  flash 
in  the  pan.  The  Doctor  's  ready  for  't ;  for  all  his  cunnin' 
he  could  n't  help  lettin'  me  see  that ;  but  he  tries  to  cover- 
both  pockets  with  one  hand  while  he  stretches  out  the 
t'other.  The  gal's  money  's  safe,  ten  thousand  of  it,  and 
we  Ve  agreed  that  it  '11  be  share  and  share ;  only,  your'n 
bein'  more  than  her'n,  why,  of  course  he  must  make  up 
the  difference." 

The  son  was  far  from  being  as  shrewd  as  the  father,  or 
he  would  have  instantly  chosen  the  proper  tack ;  but  he  was 
like  a  vessel  caught  in  stays,  and  experienced  considerable 
internal  pitching  and  jostling.  In  one  sense  it  was  a  relief 
that  the  old  man  supposed  him  to  be  worth  much  more 
than  was  actually  the  case,  but  long  experience  hinted  that 
a  favorable  assumption  of  this  kind  often  led  to  a  damag 
ing  result.  So  with  a  wink  and  grin,  the  miserable  hypoc 
risy  of  which  was  evident  to  his  own  mind,  he  said : 

"  Of  course  he  must  make  up  the  difference,  and  more 
too  !  I  know  what 's  fair  and  square." 


158  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

"  Shut  your  mouth,  boy,  till  I  give  you  leave  to  open  it. 
Do  you  hear  ?  —  the  gal's  ten  thousand  dollars  must  be  put 
ag'inst  the  ten  thousand  you  Ve  saved  off  the  profits  o'  the 
farm ;  then,  the  rest  you  've  made  bein'  properly  accounted 
for,  he  must  come  down  with  the  same  amount.  Then,  you 
must  find  out  to  a  hair  what  he  's  worth  of  his  own  —  not 
that  it  concerns  you,  but  /  must  know.  What  you  Ve  got 
to  do  is  about  as  much  as  you  've  wits  for.  Now,  open 
your  mouth !  " 

"  Ten  thousand  !  "  exclaimed  Alfred,  beginning  to  com 
prehend  the  matter  more  clearly ;  "  why,  it 's  hardly  quite 
ten  thousand  altogether,  let  alone  anything  over  ! " 

"  No  lies,  no  lies  !  I  've  got  it  all  in  my  head,  if  you 
have  n't.  Twenty  years  on  shares  —  first  year,  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty-seven  dollars  —  that  was  the  year  the  big 
flood  swep'  off  half  the  corn  on  the  bottom ;  second  year, 
two  hundred  and  fifteen,  with  interest  on  the  first,  say  six 
on  a  hundred,  allowin'  the  thirty-seven  for  your  squander- 
in's,  two  hundred  and  twenty-one ;  third  year,  three  hun 
dred  and  five,  with  interest,  seventeen,  makes  three  hun 
dred  and  twenty-two,  and  twenty,  your  half  of  the  bay 
horse  sold  to  Sam  Falconer,  forty-two ;  fourth  year  "  — 

"  Never  mind,  Daddy !  "  Alfred  interrupted  ;  "  I  've  got 
it  all  down  in  my  books ;  you  need  n't  go  over  it." 

The  old  man  struck  his  hickory  staff  violently  upon  the 
floor.  "  I  will  go  over  it !  "  he  croaked,  hoarsely.  "  I  mean 
to  show  you,  boy,  to  your  own  eyes  and  your  own  ears,  that 
you  're  now  worth  thirteen  thousand  two  hundred  and 
forty-nine  dollars  and  fifteen  cents !  And  ten  thousand  of 
it  balances  the  gal's  ten  thousand,  leavin'  three  thousand 
two  hundred  and  forty-nine  and  fifteen  cents,  for  the 
Doctor  to  make  up  to  you  !  And  you  '11  show  him  your 
papers,  for  you  're  no  son  of  mine  if  you  Ve  put  out  your 
money  without  securin'  it.  I  don't  mind  your  goin'  your 
own  road  with  what  you  've  arned,  though,  for  your  proper 
good,  you  need  n't  ha'  been  so  close;  but  now  you  Ve 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  159 

got  to  show  what 's  in  your  hand,  if  you  mean  to  git  it 
double ! " 

Alfred  Barton  was  overwhelmed  by  the  terrors  of  this 
unexpected  dilemma.  His  superficial  powers  of  dissimula 
tion  forsook  him ;  he  could  only  suggest,  in  a  weak  voice : 

"  Suppose  my  papers  don't  show  that  much  ?  " 

"  You  've  made  that,  or  nigh  onto  it,  and  your  papers 
must  show  it !  If  money  can't  stick  to  your  fingers,  do  you 
s'pose  I  'm  goin'  to  put  more  into  'em  ?  Fix  it  any  way 
you  like  with  the  Doctor,  so  you  square  accounts.  Then, 
afterwards,  let  him  come  to  me  —  ay,  let  him  come  ! " 

Here  the  old  man  chuckled  until  he  brought  on  a  fit  of 
coughing,  which  drove  the  dark  purple  blood  into  his  head. 
His  son  hastened  to  restore  him  with  a  glass  of  brandy. 

"  There,  that  '11  do,"  he  said,  presently  ;  "  now  you  know 
what 's  what.  Go  up  to  the  Doctor's  this  afternoon,  and 
have  it  out  before  you  come  home.  I  can't  dance  at  your 
weddin',  but  I  would  n't  mind  help  nuss  another  grand 
child  or  two  —  eh,  boy  ?  " 

"  Damme,  and  so  you  shall,  Dad ! "  the  son  exclaimed, 
relapsing  into  his  customary  swagger,  as  the  readiest 
means  of  natterino;  the  old  man's  more  amiable  mood.  It 

& 

was  an  easier  matter  to  encounter  Dr.  Deane  —  to  procras 
tinate  and  prolong  the  settlement  of  terms,  or  shift  the 
responsibility  of  the  final  result  from  his  own  shoulders. 
Of  course  the  present  command  must  be  obeyed,  and  it 
was  by  no  means  an  agreeable  one  ;  but  Alfred  Barton  had 
courage  enough  for  any  emergency  not  yet  arrived.  So  he 
began  to  talk  and  joke  very  comfortably  about  his  possible 
marriage,  until  Ann,  descending  to  the  kitchen  in  her  sol 
emn  black  gown,  interrupted  the  conference. 

That  afternoon,  as  Alfred  took  his  way  by  the  foot-path 
to  the  village,  he  seated  himself  in  the  shade,  on  one  end 
of  the  log  which  spanned  the  creek,  in  order  to  examine 
his  position,  before  venturing  on  a  further  step.  We  will 
not  probe  the  depths  of  his  meditations ;  probably  they 


160  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

were  not  very  deep,  even  when  most  serious  ;  but  we  may 
readily  conjecture  those  considerations  which  were  chiefly 
obvious  to  his  mind.  The  affair,  which  he  had  so  long  de 
layed,  through  a  powerful  and  perhaps  a  natural  dread,  was 
now  brought  to  a  crisis.  He  could  not  retreat  without  ex 
treme  risk  to  his  prospects  of  inheritance ;  since  his  father 
and  Dr.  Deane  had  come  to  an  actual  conference,  he  was 
forced  to  assume  the  part  which  was  appropriate  to  him. 
Sentiment,  he  was  aware,  would  not  be  exacted,  but  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  masculine  anticipation  belonged  to  his  char 
acter  of  lover ;  should  he  assume  this,  also,  or  meet  Dr. 
Deane  on  a  hard  business  ground  ? 

It  is  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  any  vulgar  man  suspects 
the  full  extent  of  his  vulgarity ;  but  there  are  few  who  are 
not  conscious,  now  and  then,  of  a  very  uncomfortable  dif 
ference  between  themselves  and  the  refined  natures  with 
whom  they  come  in  contact.  Alfred  Barton  had  never 
been  so  troubled  by  this  consciousness  as  when  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Martha  Deane.  He  was  afraid  of  her ;  he  foresaw 
that  she,  as  his  wife,  would  place  him  in  a  more  painful 
subjection  than  that  which  his  father  now  enforced.  He 
was  weary  of  bondage,  and  longed  to  draw  a  free,  unwor- 
ried  breath.  With  all  his  swagger,  his  life  had  not  always 
been  easy  or  agreeable.  A  year  or  two  more  might  see 
him,  in  fact  and  in  truth,  his  own  master.  He  was  fifty 
years  old ;  his  habits  of  life  were  fixed ;  he  would  have 
shrunk  from  the  semi-servitude  of  marriage,  though  with  a 
woman  after  his  own  heart,  and  there  was  nothing  in  this 
(except  the  money)  to  attract  him. 

"  I  see  no  way  !  "  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  after  a  fit  of 
long  and  unsatisfactory  musing. 

"  Nor  I  neither,  unless  you  make  room  for  me ! "  an 
swered  a  shrill  voice  at  his  side. 

He  started  as  if  shot,  becoming  aware  of  Miss  Betsy 
Lavender,  who  had  just  emerged  from  the  thicket. 

«  Skeered  ye,  have  I  ?  "  said  she.     "  Why,  how  you  do 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  161 

color  up,  to  be  sure  !  I  never  was  that  red,  even  in  my 
blushin'  days ;  but  never  mind,  what 's  said  to  nobody  is 
nobody's  business." 

He  laughed  a  forced  laugh.  "I  was  thinking,  Miss 
Betsy,"  he  said,  "  how  to  get  the  grain  threshed  and  sent 
to  the  mills  before  prices  come  down.  Which  way  are  you 
going  ?  " 

She  had  been  observing  him  through  half-closed  eyes, 
with  her  head  a  little  thrown  back.  First  slightly  nodding 
to  herself,  as  if  assenting  to  some  mental  remark,  she 
asked,  — 

"  Which  way  are  you  goin'  ?  For  my  part  I  rather  think 
we  're  changin'  places,  —  me  to  see  Miss  Ann,  and  you  to 
see  Miss  Martha." 

"  You  're  wrong !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  was  only  going  to 
make  a  little  neighborly  call  on  the  Doctor." 

"  On  the  Doctor !  Ah-ha !  it 's  come  to  that,  has  it  ? 
Well,  I  won't  be  in  the  way." 

"  Confound  the  witch  !  "  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  she 
sprang  upon  the  log  and  hurried  over.' 

Mr.  Alfred  Barton  was  not  acquainted  with  the  Greek 
drama,  or  he  would  have  had  a  very  real  sense  of  what  is 
meant  by  Fate.  As  it  was,  he  submitted  to  circumstances, 
climbed  the  hill,  and  never  halted  until  he  found  himself 
in  Dr.  Deane's  sitting-room. 

Of  course,  the  Doctor  was  alone  and  unoccupied ;  it 
always  happens  so.  Moreover  he  knew,  and  Alfred  Bar 
ton  knew  that  he  knew,  the  subject  to  be  discussed ;  but 
it  was  not  the  custom  of  the  neighborhood  to  approach  an 
important  interest  except  in  a  very  gradual  and  roundabout 
manner.  Therefore  the  Doctor  said,  after  the  first  greet 
ing, — 

"  Thee  '11  be  getting  thy  crops  to  market  soon,  I  im 
agine  ?  " 

"I'd  like  to,"  Barton  replied,  "but  there's  not  force 
enough  on  our  place,  and  the  threshers  are  wanted  every- 
11 


162  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

where  at  once.     What  would  you  do,  — hurry  off  the  grain 
now,  or  wait  to  see  how  it  may  stand  in  the  spring  ?  " 

Dr.  Deane  meditated  a  moment,  and  then  answered  with 
great  deliberation  :  "  I  never  like  to  advise,  where  the 
chances  are  about  even.  It  depends,  thee  knows,  on  the 
prospect  of  next  year's  crops.  But,  which  ever  way  thee 
decides,  it  will  make  less  difference  to  thee  than  to  them 
that  depend  altogether  upon  their  yearly  earnings." 

Barton  understood,  this  stealthy  approach  to  the  impor 
tant  subject,  and  met  it  in  the  same  way.  "  I  don't  know," 
lie  said  ;  u  it 's  slow  saving  on  half-profits.  I  have  to  look 
mighty  close,  to  make  anything  decent." 
,  "Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "what  is  n't  laid  up  by  thee, 
is  laid  \\]}for  thee,  I  should  judge." 

"  I  should  hope  so,  Doctor ;  but  I  guess  you  know  the 
old  man  as  well  as  I  do.  If  anybody  could  tell  what 's  in 
his  mind,  it 's  Lawyer  Stacy,  and  he  's  as  close  as  a  steel- 
trap.  I  've  hardly  had  a  fair  chance,  and  it  ought  to  be 
made  up  to  me." 

"It  will  be,  no  doubt."  And  then  the  Doctor,  resting 
his  chin  upon  his  cane,  relapsed  into  a  grave,  silent,  expec 
tant  mood,  which  his  guest  well  understood. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said  at  last,  with  an  awkward  attempt  at  a 
gay,  confidential  manner,  "  you  know  what  I  come  for  to 
day.  Perhaps  I  'm  rather  an  old  boy  to  be  here  on  such 
an  errand  ;  I  've  been  a  bit  afraid  lest  you  might  think  me 
so  ;  and  for  that  reason  I  hav  n't  spoken  to  Martha  at  all, 
(though  I  think  she  's  smart  enough  to  guess  how  my  mind 
turns,)  and  won't  speak,  till  I  first  have  your  leave. 
I  'm  not  so  young  as  to  be  light-headed  in  such  matters ; 
and,  most  likely,  I  'm  not  everything  that  Martha  would 
like  ;  but  —  but  —  there  's  other  things  to  be  considered  — 
not  that  I  mind  'em  much,  only  the  old  man,  you  know, 
is  very  particular  about  'em,  and  so  I  've  come  up  to  see 
if  we  can't  agree  without  much  trouble." 

Dr.   Deane   took  a  small  pinch  of  Rappee,  and  then 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  163 

touched  his  nose  lightly  with  his  lavendered  handkerchief. 
He  drew  up  his  hanging  under-lip  until  it  nearly  covered 
the  upper,  and  lifted  his  nostrils  with  an  air  at  once  of 
reticence  and  wisdom.  "I  don't  deny,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  that  I  've  suspected  something  of  what  is  in  thy  mind, 
and  I  will  further  say  that  thee  's  done  right  in  coming 
first  to  me.  Martha  being  an  only  d — child,  I  have  her 
welfare  much  at  heart,  and  if  I  had  known  anything  seri 
ously  to  thy  discredit,  I  would  not  have  permitted  thy  atten 
tions.  So  far  as  that  goes,  thee  may  feel  easy.  I  did 
hope,  however,  that  thee  would  have  some  assurance  of 
what  thy  father  intends  to  do  for  thee  —  and  perhaps  thee 
has,  —  Elisha  being  established  in  his  own  independence, 
and  Ann  not  requiring  a  great  deal,  thee  would  inherit 
,  considerable,  besides  the  farm.  And  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  might  justly,  in  Martha's  interest,  ask  for  some  such 
assurance." 

If  Alfred  Barton's  secret  thought  had  been  expressed  in 
words,  it  would  have  been :  "  Curse  the  old  fool  —  he 
knows  what  the  old  man  is,  as  well  as  I  do ! "  But  he 
twisted  a  respectful  hypocrisy  out  of  his  whisker,  and 
said,  — 

"  Ye-e-es,  that  seems  only  fair.  How  am  /to  get  at  it, 
though  ?  I  dare  n't  touch  the  subject  with  a  ten-foot  pole, 
and  yet  it  stands  both  to  law  and  reason  that  I  should  come 
in  for  a  handsome  slice  o'  the  property.  You  might  take 
it  for  granted,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  So  I  might,  if  thy  father  would  take  for  granted  what  1 
might  be  able  to  do.  I  can  see,  however,  that  it 's  hardly 
thy  place  to  ask  him  ;  that  might  be  left  to  me." 

This  was  an  idea  which  had  not  occurred  to  Alfred  Bar 
ton.  A  thrill  of  greedy  curiosity  shot  through  his  heart ; 
he  saw  that,  with  Dr.  Deane's  help,  he  might  be  able  to 
ascertain  the  amount  of  the  inheritance  which  must  so 
soon  fall  to  him.  This  feeling,  fed  by  the  impatience  of 
his  long  subjection,  took  complete  possession  of  him,  and 


164  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

he  resolved  to  further  his  father's  desires,  without  regard 
to  present  results. 

"  Yes,  that  might  be  left  to  me,"  the  Doctor  repeated, 
"after  the  other  matter  is  settled.  Thee  knows  what  I 
mean.  Martha  will  have  ten  thousand  dollars  in  her  own 
right,  at  twenty-five,  —  and  sooner,  if  she  marries  with  my 
approbation.  Now,  thee  or  thy  father  must  bring  an  equal 
sum  ;  that  is  understood  between  us  —  and  I  think  thy 
father  mentioned  that  thee  could  do  it  without  calling  upon 
him.  Is  that  the  case  ?  " 

"Not  quite  —  but,  yes,  very  nearly.  That  is,  the  old 
man  's  been  so  close  with  me,  that  I  'm  a  little  close  with 
him,  Doctor,  you  see  !  He  does  n't  know  exactly  how 
much  I  have  got,  and  as  he  threatens  to  leave  me  accord 
ing  to  what  I  've  saved,  why,  I  rather  let  him  have  his  own 
way  about  the  matter." 

A  keen,  shrewd  smile  flitted  over  the  Doctor's  face. 

"  But  if  it  is  n't  quite  altogether  ten  thousand,  Doctor," 
Barton  continued,  "  I  don't  say  but  what  it  could  be  easily 
made  up  to  that  figure.  You  and  I  could  arrange  all  that 
between  our  two  selves,  without  consulting  the  old  man, 
—  and,  indeed,  it 's  not  his  business,  in  any  way,  —  and  so, 
you  might  go  straight  to  the  other  matter  at  once." 

"  H'm,"  mused  the  Doctor,  with  his  chin  again  upon  his 
stick,  "I  should  perhaps  be  working  in  thy  interest,  as 
much  as  in  mine.  Then  thee  can  afford  to  come  up  fair 
and  square  to  the  mark.  Of  course,  thee  has  all  the  papers 
to  show  for  thy  own  property  ?  " 

"  I  guess  there  '11  be  no  trouble  about  that,"  Barton  an 
swered,  carelessly.  "  I  lend  on  none  but  the  best  security. 
'T  will  take  a  little  time  —  must  go  to  Chester  —  so  we 
need  n't  wait  for  that ;  't  will  be  all  right !  " 

"  Oh,  no  doubt ;  but  has  n't  thee  overlooked  one 
thing?" 

"  What  ?  " 

"  That  Martha  should  first  know  thy  mind  towards  her." 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  165 

It  was  true ;  he  had  overlooked  that  important  fact,  and 
the  suggestion  came  to  him  very  like  an  attack  of  cramp. 
He  laughed,  however,  took  out  a  red  silk  handkerchief,  and 
tried  to  wipe  a  little  eagerness  into  his  face. 

"  No,  Doctor ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  not  forgot,  only  keeping 
the  best  for  the  last.  I  was  n't  sure  but  you  might  want  to 
speak  to  her  yourself,  first ;  but  she  knows,  does  n't  she  ?  " 

"  Not  to  my  direct  knowledge ;  and  I  would  n't  like  to 
venture  to  speak  in  her  name." 

"  Then,  I  '11  —  that  is,  you  think  I  'd  better  have  a  talk 
with  her.  A  little  tough,  at  my  time  of  life,  ha !  ha !  — 
but  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady ;  and  I  had  n't  thought 
of  going  that  far  to-day,  though  of  course,  I  'in  anxious,  — 
been  in  my  thoughts  so  long, —  and  perhaps  —  perhaps  " — 

'•  I  '11  tell  thee,"  said  the  Doctor,  seeming  not  to  notice 
Barton's  visible  embarrassment,  which  he  found  very  nat 
ural  ;  u  do  thee  come  up  again  next  First-day  afternoon, 
prepared  to  speak  thy  mind.  I  will  give  Martha  a  hint 
of  thy  purpose  beforehand,  but  only  a  hint,  mind  thee ; 
the  girl  has  a  smart  head  of  her  own,  and  thee  '11  come  on 
faster  with  her  if  thee  pleads  thy  own  cause  with  thy  own 
mouth." 

'•  Yes,  I  '11  come  then  ! "  cried  Barton,  so  relieved  at  his 
present  escape  that  his  relief  took  the  expression  of  joy. 
Dr.  Deane  was  a  fair  judge  of  character ;  he  knew  all  of 
Alfred  Barton's  prominent  traits,  and  imagined  that  he 
was  now  reading  him  like  an  open  book ;  but  it  was  like 
reading  one  of  those  Latin  sentences  which,  to  the  ear, 
are  made  up  of  English  words.  The  signs  were  all  correct, 
only  they  belonged  to  another  language. 

The  heavy  wooer  shortly  took  his  departure.  While  on 
the  return  path,  he  caught  sight  of  Miss  Betsy  Lavender's 
beaver,  bobbing  along  behind  the  pickets  of  the  hill-fence, 
and,  rather  than  encounter  its  wearer  in  his  present  mood, 
he  stole  into  the  shelter  of  one  of  the  cross-hedges,  and 
made  his  way  into  the  timbered  bottom  below. 


166  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

MARTHA    DEANE. 

LITTLE  did  Dr.  Deane  suspect  the  nature  of  the  conver 
sation  which  had  that  morning  been  held  in  his  daughter's 
room,  between  herself  and  Betsy  Lavender. 

When  the  latter  returned  from  her  interview  with  Gil 
bert  Potter,  the  previous  evening,  she  found  the  Doctor 
already  arrived.  Mark  came  home  at  supper-time,  and 
the  evening  was  so  prolonged  by  his  rattling  tongue  that 
no  room  was  left  for  any  confidential  talk  with  Martha, 
although  Miss  Betsy  felt  that  something  ought  to  be  said, 
and  it  properly  fell  to  her  lot  to  broach  the  delicate  sub 
ject. 

After  breakfast  on  Sunday  morning,  therefore,  she 
slipped  up  to  Martha's  room,  on  the  transparent  pre 
tence  of  looking  again  at  a  new  dress,  which  had  been 
bought  some  days  before.  She  held  the  stuff  to  the  light, 
turned  it  this  way  and  that,  and  regarded  it  with  an  im 
portance  altogether  out  of  proportion  to  its  value. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  could  n't  git  the  color  rightly  set  in 
my  head,"  she  remarked ;  "  't  a'n't  quiet  laylock,  nor  yit 
vi'let,  and  there  ought,  by  rights,  to  be  quilled  ribbon  round 
the  neck,  though  the  Doctor  might  consider  it  too  gay; 
but  never  mind,  he  'd  dress  you  in  drab  or  slate  if  he 
could,  and  I  dunno,  after  all"  — 

"  Betsy ! "  exclaimed  Martha,  with  an  impetuousness 
quite  unusual  to  her  calm  nature,  "  throw  down  the  dress ! 
Why  won't  you  speak  of  what  is  in  your  mind ;  don't  you 
see  I  'm  waiting  for  it  ?  " 


THE  STORY   OF  KEXNETT.  167 

"  You  're  right,  child  !  "  Miss  Betsy  cried,  flinging  the 
stuff  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room ;  "  I  'm  an  awk 
ward  old  fool,  with  all  my  exper'ence.  Of  course  I  seen 
it  with  half  a  wink ;  there  !  don't  be  so  trembly  now.  I 
know  how  you  feel,  Martha ;  you  would  n't  think  it,  but  I 
do.  I  can  tell  the  real  signs  from  the  passin'  fancies,  and 
if  ever  I  see  true-love  in  my  born  days,  I  see  it  in  you, 
child,  and  in  him" 

Martha's  face  glowed  in  spite  of  herself.  The  recollec 
tion  of  Gilbert's  embrace  in  the  dusky  glen  came  to  her, 
already  for  the  thousandth  time,  but  warmer,  sweeter  at 
each  recurrence.  She  felt  that  her  hand  trembled  in  that 
of  the  spinster,  as  they  sat  knee  to  knee,  and  that  a  tender 
dew  was  creeping  into  her  eyes  ;  leaning  forward,  she  laid 
her  face  a  moment  on  her  friend's  shoulder,  and  whis 
pered,  — 

"  It  is  all  very  new  and  strange,  Betsy ;  but  I  am  happy." 

Miss  Lavender  did  not  answer  immediately.  "With  her 
hand  on  Martha's  soft,  smooth  hair,  she  was  occupied  in 
twisting  her  arm  so  that  the  sleeve  might  catch  and  con 
ceal  two  troublesome  tears  which  were  at  that  moment 
trickling  down  her  nose.  Besides,  she  was  not  at  all  sure 
of  her  voice,  until  something  like  a  dry  crust  of  bread  in 
her  throat  had  been  forcibly  swallowed  down. 

Martha,  however,  presently  lifted  her  head  with  a  firm, 
courageous  expression,  though  the  rosy  flush  still  suffused 
her  cheeks.  "  I  'm  not  as  independent  as  people  think," 
she  said,  "  for  I  could  n't  help  myself  when  the  time  came, 
and  I  seem  to  belong  to  him,  ever  since." 

"  Ever  since.  Of  course  you  do  !  "  remarked  Miss  Betsy, 
with  her  head  down  and  her  hands  busy  at  her  high  comb 
and  thin  twist  of  hair ;  "  every  woman,  savin'  and  exceptin' 
myself,  and  no  fault  o'  mine,  must  play  Jill  to  somebody's 
Jack ;  it 's  man's  way  and  the  Lord's  way,  but  worked  out 
with  a  mighty  variety,  though  I  say  it,  but  why  not,  my 
eyes  bein'  as  good  as  anybody  else's  !  Come  now,  you  're 


168  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

lookin'  again  after  your  own  brave  fashion  ;  and  so,  you  're 
sure  o'  your  heart,  Martha  ?  " 

"  Betsy,  my  heart  speaks  once  and  for  all,"  said  Martha, 
with  kindling  eyes. 

"  Once  and  for  all.  I  knowed  it  —  and  so  the  Lord 
help  us !  For  here  I  smell  wagon-loads  o'  trouble ;  and 
if  you  were  n't  a  girl  to  know  her  own  mind  and  stick  to  it, 
come  weal,  come  woe,  and  he  with  a  bull-dog's  jaw  that  '11 
never  let  go,  and  I  mean  no  runnin'  of  him  down,  but  on 
the  contrary,  quite  the  reverse,  I  'd  say  to  both,  git  over 
it  somehow  for  it  won't  be,  and  no  matter  if  no  use,  it 's 
my  dooty,  —  well,  it 's  t'other  way,  and  I  've  got  to  give  a 
lift  where  I  can,  and  pull  this  way,  and  shove  that  way, 
and  hold  back  everybody,  maybe,  and  fit  things  to  things, 
and  unfit  other  things,  —  Good  Lord,  child,  you  've  made 
an  awful  job  for  me  !  " 

Therewith  Miss  Betsy  laughed,  with  a  dry,  crisp,  cheer 
fulness  which  quite  covered  up  and  concealed  her  forebod 
ings.  Nothing  pleased  her  better  than  to  see  realized  in 
life  her  own  views  of  what  ought  to  be,  and  the  possibil 
ity  of  becoming  one  of  the  shaping  and  regulating  powers 
to  that  end  stirred  her  nature  to  its  highest  and  most 
joyous  activity. 

Martha  Deane,  equally  brave,  was  more  sanguine.  The 
joy  of  her  expanding  love  foretold  its  fulfilment  to  her 
heart.  "I  know,  Betsy,"  she  said,  "that  father  would  not 
hear  of  it  now ;  but  we  are  both  young  and  can  wait,  at 
least  until  I  come  into  my  property- —  ours,  I  ought  to  say, 
for  I  think  of  it  already  as  being  as  much  Gilbert's  as 
mine.  What  other  trouble  can  there  be?" 

"  Is  there  none  on  his  side,  Martha  ?  " 

"  His  birth  ?  Yes,  there  is  —  or  was,  though  not  to  me 
—  never  to  me  !  I  am  so  glad,  for  his  sake,  —  but,  Betsy, 
perhaps  you  do  not  know  "  — 

"If  there's  anything  I  need  to  know,  I'll  find  it  out, 
soon  or  late.  He  's  worried,  that  I  see,  and  no  wonder, 


THE   STORY   OF  KEXNETT.  169 

poor  boy  !  But  as  you  say,  there  's  time  enough,  and  my 
single  and  solitary  advice  to  both  o'  you,  is,  don't  look  at 
one  another  before  folks,  if  you  can't  keep  your  eyes  from 
blabbin'.  Not  a  soul  suspicions  anything  now,  and  if  you 
two  rll  only  fix  it  betwixt  and  between  you  to  keep  quiet, 
and  patient,  and  as  forbearin'  in  showin'  feelin'  as  people 
that  hate  each  other  like  snakes,  why,  who  knows  but 
somethin'  may  turn  up,  all  unexpected,  to  make  the  way 
as  smooth  for  ye  as  a  pitch-pine  plank !  " 

"  Patient ! "  Martha  murmured  to  herself.  A  bright 
smile  broke  over  her  face,  as  she  thought  how  sweet  it  would 
be  to  match,  as  best  a  woman  might,  Gilbert's  incompar 
able  patience  and  energy  of  purpose.  The  tender  humil 
ity  of  her  love,  so  beautifully  interwoven  with  the  texture 
of  its  pride  and  courage,  filled  her  heart  with  a  balmy  soft 
ness  and  peace.  She  was  already  prepared  to  lay  her 
firm,  independent  spirit  at  his  feet,  or  exercise  it  only  as 
her  new,  eternal  duty  to  him  might  require.  Betsy  Lav 
ender's  warning  could  not  ripple  the  bright  surface  of  her 
happiness;  she  knew  that  no  one  (hardly  even  Gilbert, 
as  yet)  suspected  that  in  her  heart  the  love  of  a  strong  and 
faithful  and  noble  man  outweighed  all  other  gifts  or  con 
sequences  of  life  —  that,  to  keep  it,  she  would  give  up 
home,  friends,  father,  the  conventional  respect  of  every 
one  she  knew ! 

'•  Well,  child  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Lavender,  after  a  long 
lapse  of  silence ;  "  the  words  is  said  that  can't  be  taken 
back,  accordin'  to  my  views  o'  things,  though,  Goodness 
knows,  there  's  enough  and  enough  thinks  different,  and 
you  must  abide  by  'em  ;  and  what  I  think  of  it  all  I  '11  tell 
you  when  the  end  comes,  not  before,  so  don't  ask  me  now ; 
but  one  thing  more,  there  's  another  sort  of  a  gust  brewin', 
and  goin'  to  break  soon,  if  ever,  and  that  is,  Alf.  Barton, 
—  though  you  won't  believe  it,  —  he  's  after  you  in  his 
stupid  way,  and  your  father  favors  him.  And  my  advice 
is,  hold  him  off  as  much  as  you  please,  but  say  nothin'  o' 
Gilbert ! " 


170  THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT. 

This  warning  made  no  particular  impression  upon  Mar 
tha.  She  playfully  tapped  Miss  Betsy's  high  comb,  arid 
said  :  "  Now,  if  you  are  going  to  be  so  much  worried  about 
me,  I  shall  be  sorry  that  you  found  it  out" 

"  Well  I  won't !  —  and  now  let  me  hook  your  gownd." 

Often,  after  that,  however,  did  Martha  detect  Miss 
Betsy's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a  look  of  wistful,  tender 
interest,  and  she  knew,  though  the  spinster  would  not  say 
it,  that  the  latter  was  alive  with  sympathy,  and  happy  in 
the  new  confidence  between  them.  With  each  day,  her 
own  passion  grew  and  deepened,  until  it  seemed  that  the 
true  knowledge  of  love  came  after  its  confession.  A  sweet, 
warm  yearning  for  Gilbert's  presence  took  its  permanent 
seat  in  her  heart ;  not  only  his  sterling  manly  qualities, 
but  his  form,  his  face  —  the  broad,  square  brow ;  the  large, 
sad,  deep-set  gray  eyes ;  the  firm,  yet  impassioned  lips  — 
haunted  her  fancy.  Slowly  and  almost  unconsciously  as 
her  affection  had  been  developed,  it  now  took  the  full 
stature  and  wore  the  radiant  form  of  her  maiden  dream 
of  Ipve. 

If  Dr.  Deane  noticed  the  physical  bloom  and  grace  which 
those  days  brought  to  his  daughter,  he  was  utterly  innocent 
of  the  true  cause.  Perhaps  he  imagined  that  his  own  eyes 
were  first  fairly  opened  to  her  beauty  by  the  prospect  of 
soon  losing  her.  Certainly  she  had  never  seemed  more 
obedient  and  attractive.  He  had  not  forgotten  his  promise 
to  Alfred  Barton ;  but  no  very  convenient  opportunity  for 
speaking  to  her  on  the  subject  occurred  until  the  following 
Sunday  morning.  Mark  was  not  at  home,  and  he  rode 
with  her  to  Old  Kennett  Meeting. 

As  they  reached  the  top  of  the  long  hill  beyond  the 
creek,  Martha  reined  in  her  horse  to  enjoy  the  pleasant 
westward  view  over  the  fair  September  landscape.  The 
few  houses  of  the  village  crowned  the  opposite  hill ;  but  on 
this  side  the  winding,  wooded  vale  meandered  away,  to  lose 
itself  among  the  swelling  slopes  of  clover  and  stubble-field ; 


':t-:-:..  :•  or:!-  ::-   1-.-:    :: 
::    A-    :   :.  ,    — ::    :-    ±i 
such  as  one  may  see,  in  a 
--:    :-:,i:.   ::•  :.; 
nect  en}oT«i  tke  Tiew,  bat  nooe  so 


I-:—    :::  :!:-  r.rs:  r;:.i    -  :!:. :  :r  :  T'.-.:-  f  :  :J.i  >.    -. 


^Tfcee  may  be  ri 

Alfred  ts>  tity  way  of 


whenever  I  speak  to  MUL."" 
;    ;    .-:      •.--   .-•      ;...-.:   v .    :-:c    '.      : 


*b.*    Qtttft* 
other  bao4fe.waspiPB8ai 
Barton  in  the  light  of  a 
would 

Vnw  rhrir  w^ 


172  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  I  might  as  well  tell  thee  that,  in  my  judgment,  he  seems 
to  be  drawn  towards  thee  in  the  way  of  marriage.  He 
may  be  a  little  awkward  in  showing  it,  but  that 's  a  com 
mon  case.  When  he  was  at  our  house,  last  First-day,  he 
spoke  of  thee  frequently,  and  said  that  he  would  like  to  — 
well,  to  see  thee  soon.  I  believe  he  intends  coming  up  this 
afternoon." 

Martha  became  grave,  as  Betsy  Lavender's  warning  took 
so  suddenly  a  positive  form.  However,  she  had  thought  of 
this  contingency  as  a  possible  thing,  and  must  prepare  her 
self  to  meet  it  with  firmness. 

"  What  does  thee  say  ?  "  the  Doctor  asked,  after  waiting 
a  few  minutes  for  an  answer. 

"  Father,  I  hope  thee  's  mistaken.  Alfred  Barton  is  not 
overstocked  with  wit,  I  know,  but  he  can  hardly  be  that 
foolish.  He  is  almost  as  old  as  thee." 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  with  that  tone  of  decision  which 
Dr.  Deane  so  well  knew.  He  set  his  teeth  and  drew  up 
his  under-lip  to  a  grim  pout.  If  there  was  to  be  resist 
ance,  he  thought,  she  would  not  find  him  so  yielding  as  on 
other  points ;  but  he  would  first  try  a  middle  course. 

"  Understand  me,  Martha,"  he  said  ;  "  I  do  not  mean  to 
declare  what  Alfred  Barton's  sentiments  really  are,  but 
what,  in  my  judgment,  they  might  be.  And  thee  had  bet 
ter  wait  and  learn,  before  setting  thy  mind  either  for  or 
against  him.  It 's  hardly  putting  much  value  upon  thyself, 
to  call  him  foolish." 

"  It  is  a  humiliation  to  me,  if  thee  is  right,  father,"  she 
said. 

"  I  don't  See  that.  Many  young  women  would  be  proud 
of  it.  I  '11  only  say  one  thing,  Martha ;  if  he  seeks  thee, 
and  does  speak  his  mind,  do  thee  treat  him  kindly  and  re 
spectfully." 

"  Have  I  ever  treated  thy  friends  otherwise  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  friends !  thee  's  right  —  he  is  my  friend." 

Sr/e  made  no  reply,  but  her  soul  was    already  coura- 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  173 

geously  arming  itself  for  battle.  Her  father's  face  was  stern 
and  cold,  and  she  saw,  at  once,  that  he  was  on  the  side  of 
the  enemy.  This  struggle  safely  over,  there  would  come 
another  and  a  severer  one.  It  was  well  that  she  had  given 
herself  time,  setting  the  fulfilment  of  her  love  so  far  in  ad 
vance. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  this  theme,  either  during  the 
ride  to  Old  Kennett,  or  on  the  return.  Martha's  plan  was 
very  simple :  she  would  quietly  wait  until  Alfred  Barton 
should  declare  his  sentiments,  and  then  reject  him  once 
and  forever.  She  would  speak  clearly,  and  finally ;  there 
should  be  no  possibility  of  misconception.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  task ;  none  but  a  vain  and  heartless  woman  would 
be  eager  to  assume  it;  and  Martha  Deane  hoped  that  it 
might  be  spared  her. 

But  she,  no  less  than  her  irresolute  lover,  (if  we  can  ap 
ply  that  word  to  Alfred  Barton,)  was  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  an  uncomfortable  Fate.  Soon  after  dinner  a 
hesitating  knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  Barton  entered 
with  a  more  uneasy  air  than  ever  before.  Erelong,  Dr. 
Deane  affected  to  have  an  engagement  with  an  invalid  on 
the  New-Garden  road ;  Betsy  Lavender  had  gone  to  Fair- 
thorn's  for  the  afternoon,  and  the  two  were  alone. 

For  a  few  moments,  Martha  was  tempted  to  follow  her 
father's  example,  and  leave  Alfred  Barton  to  his  own  de 
vices.  Then  she  reflected  that  this  was  a  cowardly  feeling ; 
it  would  only  postpone  her  task.  He  had  taken  his  seat, 
as  usual,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  room  ;  so  she  came  for 
ward  and  seated  herself  at  the  front  window,  with  her  back 
to  the  light,  thus,  woman-like,  giving  herself  all' the  advan 
tages  of  position. 

Having  his  large,  heavy  face  before  her,  in  full  light,  she 
was  at  first  a  little  surprised  on  finding  that  it  expressed 
not  even  the  fond  anxiety,  much  less  the  eagerness,  of  an 
aspiring  wooer.  The  hair  and  whiskers,  it  is  true,  were. so 
smoothly  combed  back  that  they  made  long  lappets  on 


174  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

either  side  of  his  face  ;  unusual  care  had  been  taken  with 
his  cambric  cravat  and  shirt-ruffles,  and  he  wore  his  best 
blue  coat,  which  was  entirely  too  warm  for  the  season.  In 
strong  contrast  to  this  external  preparation,  were  his  rest 
less  eyes  which  darted  hither  and  thither  in  avoidance  of 
her  gaze,  the  fidgety  movements  of  his  thick  fingers,  creep 
ing  around  buttons  and  in  and  out  of  button-holes,  and 
finally  the  silly,  embarrassed  half-smile  which  now  and  then 
came  to  his  mouth,  and  made  the  platitudes  of  his  speech 
almost  idiotic. 

Martha  Deane  felt  her  courage  rise  as  she  contemplated 
this  picture.  In  spite  of  the  disgust  which  his  gross  physi 
cal  appearance,  and  the  contempt  which  his  awkward  help 
lessness  inspired,  she  was  conscious  of  a  lurking  sense  of 
amusement.  Even  a  curiosity,  which  we  cannot  reprehend, 
to  know  by  what  steps  and  in  what  manner  he  would  come 
to  the  declaration,  began  to  steal  into  her  mind,  now  that  it 
was  evident  her  answer  could  not  possibly  wound  any  other 
feeling  than  vanity. 

In  this  mood,  she  left  the  burden  of  the  conversation  to 
him.  He  might  flounder,  or  be  completely  stalled,  as 
often  as  he  pleased ;  it  was  no  part  of  her  business  to  help 
him. 

In  about  three  minutes  after  she  had  taken  her  seat  by 
the  window,  he  remarked,  with  a  convulsive  smile,  — 

"  Apples  are  going  to  be  good,  this  year." 

"Are  they?  "she  said. 

"  Yes ;  do  you  like  'em  ?     Most  girls  do." 

"  I  believe  I  do,  —  except  Russets,"  Martha  replied,  with 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  full  upon  his 
face. 

He  twisted  the  smoothness  out  of  one  whisker,  very 
much  disconcerted  at  her  remark,  because  he  could  not 
tell  —  he  never  could,  when  speaking  with  her  —  whether 
or  not  she  was  making  fun  of  him.  But  he  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say,  except  his  own  preferences  in  the  matter  of 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  175 

apples,  —  a  theme  which  he  pursued  until  Martha  was  very 
tired  of  it 

He  next  asked  after  Mark  Deane,  expressing  at  great 
length  his  favorable  opinion  of  the  young  carpenter,  and 
relating  what  pains  he  had  taken  to  procure  for  him  the 
building  of  Hallowell's  barn.  But  to  each  observation 
Martha  made  the  briefest  possible  replies,  so  that  in  a  short 
time  he  was  forced  to  start  another  topic. 

Nearly  an  hour  had  passed,  and  Martha's  sense  of  the 
humorous  had  long  since  vanished  under  the  dreary  monot 
ony  of  the  conversation,  when  Alfred  Barton  seemed  to 
have  come  to  a  desperate  resolution  to  end  his  embarrass 
ment.  Grasping  his  knees  with  both  hands,  and  dropping 
his  head  forward  so  that  the  arrows  of  her  eyes  might 
glance  from  his  fat  forehead,  he  said,  — 

"  I  suppose  you  know  why  I  come  here  to-day,  Miss 
Martha?" 

All  her  powers  were  awake  and  alert  in  a  moment.  She 
scrutinized  his  face  keenly,  and,  although  his  eyes  were  hid 
den,  there  were  lines  enough  visible,  especially  about  the 
mouth,  to  show  that  the  bitter  predominated  over  the  sweet, 
in  his  emotions. 

"  To  see  my  father,  was  n't  it  ?  I  'm  sorry  he  was  obliged 
to  leave  home,"  she  answered. 

"  No,  Miss  Martha,  I  come  to  see  you.  I  have  some 
thing  to  say  to  you,  and  I  'm  sure  you  know  what  I  mean 
by  this  time,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No.  How  should  I  ?  "  she  coolly  replied.  It  was  not 
true ;  but  the  truest-hearted  woman  that  ever  lived  could 
have  given  no  other  answer. 

Alfred  Barton  felt  the  sensation  of  a  groan  pass  through 
him,  and  it  very  nearly  came  out  of  his  mouth.  Then  he 
pushed  on,  in  a  last  wild  effort  to  perform  the  remainder  of 
his  exacted  task  in  one  piece  : 

"  I  want  you  to  be  —  to  be  —  my  —  wife  !  That  is,  my 
father  and  yours  are  agreed  about  it,  and  they  think  I  ought 


176  THE   STORY   OF   KENXETT. 

to  speak  to  you.  I  'm  a  good  deal  older,  and  —  and  per 
haps  you  might  n't  fancy  me  in  all  things,  but  they  say  it  '11 
make  little  difference ;  and  if  you  have  n't  thought  about 
it  much,  why,  there  's  no  hurry  as  to  making  up  your  mind. 
I  've  told  you  now,  and  to  be  sure  you  ought  to  know,  while 
the  old  folks  are  trying  to  arrange  property  matters,  and 
it 's  my  place,  like,  to  speak  to  you  first." 

Here  he  paused ;  his  face  was  very  red,  and  the  perspi 
ration  was  oozing  in  great  drops  from  every  pore.  He 
drew  forth  the  huge  red  silk  handkerchief,  and  mopped 
his  cheeks,  his  nose,  and  his  forehead;  then  lifted  his 
head  and  stole  a  quick  glance  at  Martha.  Something  in 
his  face  puzzled  her,  and  yet  a  sudden  presentiment  of  his 
true  state  of  feeling  flashed  across  her  mind.  She  still 
sat,  looking  steadily  at  him,  and  for  a  few  moments  did  not 
speak. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  stammered. 

"  Alfred  Barton/'  she  said,  "  I  must  ask  you  one  ques 
tion  ;  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  feel  a  sharp  sting.  The  muscles  of  his 
mouth  twitched ;  he  bit  his  lip,  sank  his  head  again,  and 
murmured,  — 

«Y-yes." 

"  He  does  not,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  am  spared  this 
humiliation.  It  is  a  mean,  low  nature,  and  fears  mine  — 
fears,  and  would  soon  hate.  He  shall  not  see  even  so  much 
of  me  as  would  be  revealed  by  a  frank,  respectful  rejection. 
I  must  punish  him  a  little  for  the  deceit,  and  I  now  see  how 
to  do  it." 

While  these  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  her  brain, 
she  waited  until  he  should  again  venture  to  meet  her  eye. 
When  he  lifted  his  head,  she  exclaimed,  — 

"  You  have  told  an  untruth  !  Don't  turn  your  head 
away ;  look  me  in  the  face,  and  hear  me  tell  you  that  you 
do  not  love  me  —  that  you  have  not  come  to  me  of  your 
own  desire,  and  that  you  would  rather  ten  thousand  times 


THE   STORY  OF  KENXETT.  177 

I  should  say  No,  if  it  were  not  for  a  little  property  of  mine  ! 
But  suppose  I,  too,  were  of  a  similar  nature ;  suppose  I 
cared  not  for  what  is  called  love,  but  only  for  money  and 
lands  such  as  you  will  inherit ;  suppose  I  found  the  plans 
of  my  father  and  your  father  very  shrewd  and  reasonable, 
and  were  disposed  to  enter  into  them  —  what  then  ?  " 

Alfred  Barton  was  surprised  out  of  the  last  remnant  of 
his  hypocrisy.  His  face,  so  red  up  to  this  moment,  sud 
denly  became  sallow ;  his  chin  dropped,  and  an  expression 
of  amazement  and  fright  came  into  the  eyes  fixed  on 
Martha's. 

The  game  she  was  playing  assumed  a  deeper  interest ; 
here  was  something  which  she  could  not  yet  fathom.  She 
saw  what  influence  had  driven  him  to  her,  against  his  incli 
nation,  but  his  motive  for  seeming  to  obey,  while  dreading 
success,  was  a  puzzle.  Singularly  enough,  a  slight  feeling 
of  commiseration  began  to  soften  her  previous  contempt, 
and  hastened  her  final  answer. 

"I  see  that  these  suppositions  would  not  please  you," 
she  said,  "  and  thank  you  for  the  fact.  Your  face  is  more 
candid  than  your  speech.  I  am  now  ready  to  say,  Alfred 
Barton,  —  because  I  am  sure  the  knowledge  will  be  agree 
able  to  you,  —  that  no  lands,  no  money,  no  command  of 
my  father,  no  degree  of  want,  or  misery,  or  disgrace,  could 
ever  make  me  your  wife !  " 

She  had  risen  from  her  chair  while  speaking,  and  he  also 
started  to  his  feet.  Her  words,  though  such  an  astounding 
relief  in  one  sense,  had  nevertheless  given  him  pain  ;  there 
was  a  sting  in  them  which  cruelly  galled  his  self-conceit. 
It  was  enough  to  be  rejected ;  she  need  not  have  put  an 
eternal  gulf  between  their  natures. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  sliding  the  rim  of  his  beaver  backwards 
and  forwards  between  his  fingers,  "  I  suppose  I  '11  have  to 
be  going.  You  're  very  plain-spoken,  as  I  might  ha' 
known.  I  doubt  whether  we  two  would  make  a  good  team, 
and  no  offence  to  you,  Miss  Martha.  Only,  it  11  be  a  mor- 
12 


178  .  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

tal  disappointment  to  the  old  man,  and  —  look  here,  it  a'n't 
worth  while  to  say  anything  about  it,  is  it  ?  " 

Alfred  Barton  was  strongly  tempted  to  betray  the  secret 
reason  which  Martha  had  not  yet  discovered.  After  the 
strong  words  he  had  taken  from  her,  she  owed  him  a  kind 
ness,  he  thought ;  if  she  would  only  allow  the  impression 
that  the  matter  was  still  undecided  —  that  more  time 
(which  a  coy  young  maiden  might  reasonably  demand)  had 
been  granted !  On  the  other  hand,  he  feared  that  her 
clear,  firm  integrity  of  character  would  be  repelled  by  the 
nature  of  his  motive.  He  was  beginning  to  feel,  greatly  to 
his  own  surprise,  a  profound  respect  for  her. 

"  If  my  father  questions  me  about  your  visit,"  she  said, 
"  I  shall  tell  him  simply  that  I  have  declined  your  offer. 
No  one  else  is  likely  to  ask  me." 

"  I  don't  deny,"  he  continued,  still  lingering  near  the 
door,  "  that  I  've  been  urged  by  my  father  —  yours,  too,  for 
that  matter  —  to  make  the  offer.  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  hard  of  me.  I  've  not  had  an  easy  time  of  it,  and 
if  you  knew  everything,  you  'd  see  that  a  good  deal  is  n't 
rightly  to  be  laid  to  my  account." 

He  spoke  sadly,  and  so  genuine  a  stamp  of  unhappiness 
was  impressed  upon  his  face,  that  Martha's  feeling  of  com 
miseration  rose  to  the  surface. 

"  You  '11  speak  to  me,  when  we  happen  to  meet  ? "  he 
said. 

"  If  I  did  not,"  she  answered,  "  every  one  would  suspect 
that  something  had  occurred.  That  would  be  unpleasant 
for  both  of  us.  Do  not  think  that  I  shall  bear  malice 
against  you ;  on  the  contrary,  I  wish  you  well." 

He  stooped,  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  swiftly,  silently, 
and  with  averted  head,  left  the  room. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  179 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

CONSULTATIONS. 

WHEN  Dr.  Deane  returned  home,  in  season  for  supper, 
he  found  Martha  and  Betsy  Lavender  employed  about 
their  little  household  matters.  The  former  showed  no 
lack  of  cheerfulness  or  composure,  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
any  such  nervous  unrest  as  would  be  natural  to  a  maiden 
whose  hand  had  just  been  asked  in  marriage.  The  Doctor 
could  not  at  all  guess,  from  her  demeanor,  whether  any 
thing  had  happened  during  his  absence.  That  Alfred 
Barton  had  not  remained  was  rather  an  unfavorable  cir 
cumstance  ;  but  then,  possibly,  he  had  not  found  courage 
to  speak.  All  things  being  considered,  it  seemed  best 
that  he  should  say  nothing  to  Martha,  until  he  had  had 
another  interview  with  his  prospective  son-in-law. 

At  this  time  Gilbert  Potter,  in  ignorance  of  the  cunning 
plans  which  were  laid  by  the  old  men,  was  working  early 
and  late  to  accomplish  all  necessary  farm-labor  by  the 
first  of  October.  That  month  he  had  resolved  to  devote 
to  the  road  between  Columbia  and  Newport,  and  if  but 
average  success  attended  his  hauling,  the  earnings  of  six 
round  trips,  with  the  result  of  his  bountiful  harvest,  would 
at  last  place  in  his  hands  the  sum  necessary  to  defray  the 
'remaining  debt  upon  the  farm.  His  next  year's  wheat-crop 
was  already  sowed,  the  seed-clover  cut,  and  the  fortnight 
which  still  intervened  was  to  be  devoted  to  threshino1.  In 

O 

this  emergency,  as  at  reaping-time,  when  it  was  difficult  to 
obtain  extra  hands,  he  depended  on  Deb.  Smith,  and  she 
did  not  fail  him. 


180  ,  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Her  principal  home,  when  she  was  not  employed  on 
farm-work,  was  a  log-hut,  on  the  edge  of  a  wood,  belong 
ing  to  the  next  farm  north  of  Fairthorn's.  This  farm  — 
the  "Woodrow  property,"  as  it  was  called  —  had  been 
stripped  of  its  stock  and  otherwise  pillaged  by  the  British 
troops,  (Howe  and  Cornwallis  having  had  their  headquar 
ters  at  Kennett  Square),  the  day  previous  to  the  Battle  of 
Brandywine,  and  the  proprietor  had  never  since  recovered 
from  his  losses.  The  place  presented  a  ruined  and  deso 
lated  appearance,  and  Deb.  Smith,  for  that  reason  perhaps, 
had  settled  herself  in  the  original  log-cabin  of  the  first 
settler,  beside  a  swampy  bit  of  ground,  near  the  road.  The 
Woodrow  farm-house  was  on  a  ridge  beyond  the  wood, 
and  no  other  dwelling  was  in  sight. 

The  mysterious  manner  of  life  of  this  woman  had  no 
doubt  given  rise  to  the  bad  name  which  she  bore  in  the 
neighborhood.  She  would  often  disappear  for  a  week  or 
two  at  a  time,  and  her  return  seemed  to  take  place  inva 
riably  in  the  night.  Sometimes  a  belated  farmer  would 
see  the  single  front  window  of  her  cabin  lighted  at  mid 
night,  and  hear  the  dulled  sound  of  voices  in  the  stillness. 
But  no  one  cared  to  play  the  spy  upon  her  movements 
very  closely  ;  her  great  strength  and  fierce,  reckless  tem 
per  made  her  dangerous,  and  her  hostility  would  have 
been  worse  than  the  itching  of  ungratified  curiosity.  So 
they  let  her  alone,  taking  their  revenge  in  the  character 
they  ascribed  to  her,  and  the  epithets  they  attached  to  her 
name. 

When  Gilbert,  after  hitching  his  horse  in  a  corner  of  the 
zigzag  picket-fence,  climbed  over  and  approached  the 
cabin,  Deb.  Smith  issued  from  it  to  meet  him,  closing  the 
heavy  plank  door  carefully  behind  her. 

"  So,  Mr.  Gilbert !  "  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  hard, 
red  hand,  "  I  reckon  you  want  me  ag'in.  I  Ve  been  hoi  din 
oiF  from  many  jobs  o'  thrashing  this  week,  because  I  sus- 
picioned  ye  'd  be  comin'  for  me." 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  181 

"  Thank  you,  Deborah  !  "  said  he,  "  you  're  a  friend  in 
need." 

"Am  I?  There  you  speak  the  truth.  Wait  till  you 
see  me  thump  the  Devil's  tattoo  with  my  old  flail  on  your 
thrash in'-floor !  But  you  look  as  cheery  as  an  Easter- 
mornin'  sun ;  you  've  not  much  for  to  complain  of,  these 
days,  I  guess  ?  " 

Gilbert  smiled. 

"  Take  care ! "  she  cried,  a  kindly  softness  spreading 
over  her  rough  face,  "  good  luck  's  deceitful !  If  I  had  the 
strands  o'  your  fortin'  in  my  hands,  may  be  I  would  n't  twist 
'em  even ;  but  I  ha'n't,  and  my  fingers  is  too  thick  to  man 
age  anything  smaller  'n  a  rope-knot.  You  're  goin'  ?  Well, 
look  out  for  me  bright  and  early  o'  Monday,  and  my  sar- 
vice  to  your  mother  !  " 

As  he  rode  over  the  second  hill,  on  his  way  to  the  vil 
lage,  Gilbert's  heart  leaped,  as  he  beheld  Betsy  Lavender 
just  turning  into  Fairthorn's  gate.  Except  his  mother, 
she  was  the  only  person  who  knew  of  his  love,  and  he  had 
great  need  of  her  kind  and  cautious  assistance. 

He  had  not  allowed  his  heart  simply  to  revel  in  the 
ecstasy  of  its  wonderful  fortune,  or  to  yearn  with  inexpres 
sible  warmth  for  Martha's  dearest  presence,  though  these 
emotions  haunted  him  constantly  ;  he  had  also  endeavored 
to  survey  the  position  in  which  he  stood,  and  to  choose 
the  course  which  would  fulfil  both  his  duty  towards  her 
and  towards  his  mother.  His  coming  independence  would 
have  made  the  prospect  hopefully  bright,  but  for  the  secret 
which  lay  across  it  like  a  threatening  shadow.  Betsy  Lav 
ender's  assurances  had  only  partially  allayed  his  dread  ; 
something  hasty  and  uncertain  in  her  manner  still  lingered 
uneasily  in  his  memory,  and  he  felt  sure  that  she  knew 
more  than  she  was  willing  to  tell.  Moreover,  he  craved 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  heart  for  another  interview 
with  Martha,  and  he  knew  of  no  way  to  obtain  it  without 
Betsy's  help. 


182  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Her  hand  was  on  the  gate-latch  when  his  call  reached 
her  ears.  Looking  up  the  road,  she  saw  that  he  had 
stopped  his  horse  between  the  high,  bushy  banks,  and  was 
beckoning  earnestly.  Darting  a  hasty  glance  at  the  ivy- 
draped  windows  nearest  the  road,  and  finding  that  she  was 
not  observed,  she  hurried  to  meet  him. 

"  Betsy,"  he  whispered,  "  I  must  see  Martha  again  before 
I  leave,  and  you  must  tell  me  how." 

"  Tell  me  how.  Folks  say  that  lovyers'  wits  are  sharp," 
said  she,  "  but  I  would  n't  give  much  for  either  o'  your'n. 
I  don't  like  underhanded  goin's-on,  for  my  part,  for  things 
done  in  darkness  '11  come  to  light,  or  somethin'  like  it ; 
but  never  mind,  if  they  're  crooked  everyway  they  won't 
run  in  straight  tracks,  all 't  once't.  This  I  see,  and  you 
see,  and  she  sees,  that  we  must  all  keep  as  dark  as  sin." 

"  But  there  must  be  some  way,"  Gilbert  insisted.  "  Do 
you  never  walk  out  together  ?  And  could  n't  we  arrange 
a  time  —  you,  too,  Betsy,  I  want  you  as  well !  " 

"  I  'm  afeard  I  'd  be  like  the  fifth  wheel  to  a  wagon." 

"No,  no  !  You  must  be  there  — you  must  hear  a  good 
part  of  what  I  have  to  say." 

"  A  good  part  —  that  '11  do  ;  thought  you  did  n't  mean 
the  whole.  Don't  fret  so,  lad  ;  you  '11  have  Roger  tramp- 
in'  me  down,  next  thing.  Martha  and  me  talk  o'  walkin' 
over  to  Polly  Withers's.  She  promised  Martha  a  pa'tridge- 
breasted  aloe,  and  they  say  you  've  got  to  plant  it  in  pewter 
sand,  and  only  water  it  once't  a  month,  and  how  it  can 
grow  I  can't;  see ;  but  never  mind,  all  the  same  —  s'pose 
we  say  Friday  afternoon  about  three  o'clock,  goin'  through 
the  big  woods  between  the  Square  and  Witherses,  and  you 
might  have  a  gun,  for  the  squirls  is  plenty,  and  so  acci 
dental-like,  if  anybody  should  come  along  "  — 

"That's  it,  Betsy!"  Gilbert  cried,  his  face  flashing, 
"  thank  you,  a  thousand  times  ! " 

"  A  thousand  times,"  she  repeated.     "  Once't  is  enough." 

Gilbert  rode  homewards,  after  a  pleasant  call  at  Fair- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  183 

thorn's,  in  a  very  joyous  mood.  Not  daring  to  converse 
with  his  mother  on  the  one  subject  which  filled  his  heart, 
he  showed  her  the  calculations  which  positively  assured 
his  independence  in  a  short  time.  She  was  never  weary 
of  going  over  the  figures,  and  although  her  sad,  cautious 
nature  always  led  her  to  anticipate  disappointments,  there 
was  now  so  much  already  in  hand  that  she  was  forced  to 
share  her  son's  sanguine  views.  Gilbert  could  not  help 
noticing  that  this  idea  of  independence,  for  which  she  had 
labored  so  strenuously,  seemed  to  be  regarded,  in  her 
mind,  as  the  first  step  towards  her  mysterious  and  long- 
delayed  justification ;  she  was  so  impatient  for  its  accom 
plishment,  her  sad  brow  lightened  so,  her  breath  came  so 
much  freer  as  she  admitted  that  his  calculations  were  cor 
rect ! 

Nevertheless,  as  he  frequently  referred  to  the  matter, 
on  the  following  days,  she  at  last  said,  — 

"  Please,  Gilbert,  don't  always  talk  so  certainly  of  what 
is  n't  over  and  settled  !  It  makes  me  fearsome,  so  to  take 
Providence  for  granted  beforehand.  I  don't  think  the 
Lord  likes  it,  for  I  've  often  noticed  that  it  brings  disap 
pointment  ;  and  I  'd  rather  be  humble  and  submissive  in 
heart,  the  better  to  deserve  our  good  fortune  when  it 
comes." 

"  You  may  be  right,  mother,"  he  answered ;  "  but  it 's 
pleasant  to  me  to  see  you  looking  a  little  more  hopeful." 

"  Ay,  lad,  I  'd  never  look  otherwise,  for  your  sake,  if  I 
could."  And  nothing  more  was  said. 

Before  sunrise  on  Monday  morning,  the  rapid,  alternate 
beats  of  three  flails,  on  Gilbert's  threshing-floor,  made  the 
autumnal  music  which  the  farmer  loves  to  hear.  Two  of 
these  - —  Gilbert's  and  Sam's  —  kept  tune  with  each  other, 
one  falling  as  the  other  rose ;  but  the  third,  quick,  loud, 
and  filling  all  the  pauses  with  thundering  taps,  was  wielded 
by  the  arm  of  Deb.  Smith.  Day  by  day,  the  pile  of  wheat- 
sheaves  lessened  in  the  great  bay,  and  the  cone  of  golden 


184  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

straw  rose  higher  in  the  barn-yard.  If  a  certain  black  jug, 
behind  the  barn-door,  needed  frequent  replenishing,  Gil 
bert  knew  that  the  strength  of  its  contents  passed  into  the 
red,  bare,  muscular  arms  which  shamed  his  own,  and  that 
Deb.,  while  she  was  under  his  roof,  would  allow  herself  no 
coarse  excess,  either  of  manner  or  speech.  The  fierce, 
defiant  look  left  her  face,  and  when  she  sat,  of  an  evening, 
with  her  pipe  in  the  chimney-corner,  both  mother  and  son 
found  her  very  entertaining  company.  In  Sam  she  in 
spired  at  once  admiration  and  despair.  She  could  take 
him  by  the  slack  of  the  waist-band  and  lift  him  at  arm's- 
length,  and  he  felt  that  he  should  never  be  "  a  full  hand," 
if  he  were  obliged  to  equal  her  performances  with  the  flail. 

Thus,  his  arm  keeping  time  to  th6  rhythm  of  joy  in  his 
heart,  and  tasting  the  satisfaction  of  labor  as  never  before 
in  his  life,  the  days  passed  to  Gilbert  Potter.  Then  came 
the  important  Friday,  hazy  with  "  the  smoke  of  burning 
summer,"  and  softly  colored  with  the  drifts  of  golden-rods 
and  crimson  sumac  leaves  along  the  edges  of  the  yet  green 
forests.  Easily  feigning  an  errand  to  the  village,  he 
walked  rapidly  up  the  road  in  the  warm  afternoon,  taking 
the  cross-road  to  New-Garden  just  before  reaching  Hallo- 
well's,  and  then  struck  to  the  right  across  the  fields. 

After  passing  the  crest  of  the  hill,  the  land  sloped  grad 
ually  down  to  the  eastern  end  of  Tuffkenamon  valley, 
which  terminates  at  the  ridge  upon  which  Kennett  Square 
stands.  Below  him,  on  the  right,  lay  the  field  and  hedge, 
across  which  he  and  Fortune  (he  wondered  what  had  be 
come  of  the  man)  had  followed  me  chase  ;  and  before  him, 
on  the  level,  rose  the  stately  trees  of  the  wood  which  was 
to  be  his  trysting-place.  It  was  a  sweet,  peaceful  scene, 
and  but  for  the  under-current  of  trouble  upon  which  all  his 
sensations  floated,  he  could  have  recognized  the  beauty  and 
the  bliss  of  human  life,  which  such  golden  days  suggest. 

It  was  scarcely  yet  two  o'clock,  and  he  watched  the 
smooth  field  nearest  the  village  for  full  three-quarters  of  an 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  185 

hour,  before  his  sharp  eyes  could  detect  any  moving  form 
upon  its  surface.  To  impatience  succeeded  doubt,  to  doubt, 
at  its  most  cruel  height,  a  shock  of  certainty.  Betsy  Lav 
ender  and  Martha  Deane  had  entered  the  field  at  the  bot 
tom,  and,  concealed  behind  the  hedge  of  black-thorn,  had 
walked  half-way  to  the  wood  before  he  discovered  them,  by 
means  of  a  lucky  break  in  the  hedge.  With  breathless 
haste  he  descended  the  slope,  entered  the  wood  at  its  lower 
edge,  and  traversed  the  tangled  thickets  of  dogwood  and 
haw,  until  he  gained  the  foot-path,  winding  through  the 
very  heart  of  the  shade. 

It  was  not  many  minutes  before  the  two  advancing  forms 
glimmered  among  the  leaves.  As  he  sprang  forward  to 
meet  them,  Miss  Betsy  Lavender  suddenly  exclaimed,  — 
"  Well,  I  never,  Martha !  here  's  wintergreen  ! "  and  was 
down  on  her  knees,  on  the  dead  leaves,  with  her  long  nose 
nearly  touching  the  plants. 

When  the  lovers  saw  each  others  eyes,  one  impulse 
drew  them  heart  to  heart.  Each  felt  the  clasp  of  the 
other's  arms,  and  the  sweetness  of  that  perfect  kiss,  which 
is  mutually  given,  as  mutually  taken,  —  the  ripe  fruit  of 
love,  which  having  once  tasted,  all  its  first  timid  tokens 
seem  ever  afterwards  immature  and  unsatisfactory.  The 
hearts  of  both  had  unconsciously  grown  in  warmth,  in 
grace  and  tenderness  ;  and  they  now  felt,  for  the  first  time, 
the  utter,  reciprocal  surrender  of  their  natures  which  truly 
gave  them  to  each  other. 

As  they  slowly  unwound  the  blissful  embrace,  and,  hold 
ing  each  other's  hands,  drew  their  faces  apart  until  cither's 
eyes  could  receive  the  other's  beloved  countenance,  no 
words  were  spoken,  —  and  none  were  needed.  Thencefor 
ward,  neither  would  ever  say  to  the  other,  —  "  Do  you  love 
me  as  well  as  ever  ? "  or  "  Are  you  sure  you  can  never 
change  ?  "  —  for  theirs  were  natures  to  which  such  tender 
doubt  and  curiosity  were  foreign.  It  was  not  the  age  of 
introversion  or  analytical  love ;  they  were  sound,  simple, 


186  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

fervent  natures,  and  believed  forever  in  the  great  truth 
which  had  come  to  them. 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Martha,  presently,  "  it  was  right  that  we 
should  meet  before  you  leave  home.  I  have  much  to  tell 
you  —  for  now  you  must  know  everything  that  concerns 
me  ;  it  is  your  right." 

Her  words  were  very  grateful.  To  hear  her  say  "  It  is 
your  right,"  sent  a  thrill  of  purely  unselfish  pride  through 
his  breast.  He  admitted  an  equal  right,  on  her  part ;  the 
moments  were  precious,  and  he  hastened  to  answer  her 
declaration  by  one  as  frank  and  confiding. 

"  And  I,"  he  said,  "  could  not  take  another  step  until  I 
had  seen  you.  Do  not  fear,  Martha,  to  test  my  patience 
or  my  faith  in  you,  for  anything  you  may  put  upon  me  will 
be  easy  to  bear.  I  have  turned  our  love  over  and  over  in 
my  mind  ;  tried  to  look  at  it  —  as  we  both  must,  sooner  or 
later  —  as  something  which,  though  it  don't  in  any  wise 
belong  to  others,  yet  with  which  others  have  the  power  to 
interfere.  The  world  is  n't  made  quite  right,  Martha,  and 
we  're  living  in  it." 

Martha's  lip  took  a  firmer  curve.  "  Our  love  is  right, 
Gilbert,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  the  world  must  give  way !  " 

"  It  must  —  I  've  sworn  it !  Now  let  us  try  to  see  what 
are  the  mountains  in  our  path,  and  how  we  can  best  get 
around  or  over  them.  First,  this  is  my  position." 

Thereupon  Gilbert  clearly  and  rapidly  explained  to  her 
his  precise  situation.  He  set  forth  his  favorable  prospects 
of  speedy  independence,  the  obstacle  which  his  mother's 
secret  threw  in  their  way,  and  his  inability  to  guess  any 
means  which  might  unravel  the  mystery,  and  hasten  his 
and  her  deliverance.  The  disgrace  once  removed,  he 
thought,  all  other  impediments  to  their  union  would  be  of 
trifling  importance. 

"  I  see  all  that  clearly,"  said  Martha,  when  he  had  fin 
ished  ;  "  now,  this  is  my  position." 

She  told  him  frankly  her  father's  plans  concerning  her, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  187 

and  gave  him,  with  conscientious  minuteness,  all  the  details 
of  Alfred  Barton's  interview.  At  first  his  face  grew  dark, 
but  at  the  close  he  was  able  to  view  the  subject  in  its  true 
character,  and  to  contemplate  it  with  as  careless  a  merri 
ment  as  her  own. 

"  You  see,  Gilbert,"  were  Martha's  final  words,  "  how  we 
are  situated.  If  I  marry,  against  my  father's  consent,  be 
fore  I  am  twenty -five  "  — 

"  Don't  speak  of  your  property,  Martha  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  I 
never  took  that  into  mind  !  " 

"  I  know  you  did  n't,  Gilbert,  but  1  do  !  It  is  mine,  and 
must  be  mine,  to  be  yours ;  here  you  must  let  me  have  my 
own  way  —  I  will  obey  you  in  everything  else.  Four  years 
is  not  long  for  us  to  wait,  having  faith  in  each  other  ;  and 
in  that  time,  I  doubt  not,  your  mother's  secret  will  be  re 
vealed.  You  cannot,  must  not,  press  her  further ;  in  the 
meantime  we  will  see  each  other  as  often  as  possible  "  — 

"  Four  years !  "  Gilbert  interrupted,  in  a  tone  almost  of 
despair. 

"  Well  —  not  quite,"  said  Martha,  smiling  archly ;  "  since 
you  must  know  my  exact  age,  Gilbert,  I  was  twenty-one  on 
the  second  of  last  February  ;  so  that  the  time  is  really  three 
years,  four  months,  and  eleven  days." 

"  I  'd  serve  seven  years,  as  Jacob  served,  if  need  be,"  he 
said.  "  It 's  not  alone  the  waiting ;  it 's  the  anxiety,  the 
uncertainty,  the  terrible  fear  of  that  which  I  don't  know. 
I  'm  sure  that  Betsy  Lavender  guesses  something  about  it ; 
have  you  told  her  what  my  mother  says  ?  " 

"  It  was  your  secret,  Gilbert." 

"  I  did  n't  think,"  he  answered,  softly.  "  But  it 's  well 
she  should  know.  She  is  the  best  friend  we  have.  Betsy !  * 

"  A  mortal  long  time  afore  /  'm  wanted  ! "  exclaimed 
Miss  Lavender,  with  assumed  grimness,  as  she  obeyed  the 
call.  "  I  s'pose  you  thought  there  was  no  watch  needed, 
and  both  ends  o'  the  path  open  to  all  the  world.  Well  — 
what  am  /to  do? — move  mountains  like  a  grain  o' mustard- 


188  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

seed  (or  however  it  runs),  dip  out  th'  ocean  with  a  pint-pot, 
or  ketch  old  birds  with  chaff,  eh  ?  " 

Gilbert,  aware  that  she  was  familiar  with  the  particular 
difficulties  on  Martha's  side,  now  made  her  acquainted  with 
his  own.  At  the  mention  of  his  mother's  declaration  in 
regard  to  his  birth,  she  lifted  her  hands  and  nodded  her 
head,  listening,  thenceforth  to  the  end,  with  half-closed 
eyes  and  her  loose  lips  drawn  up  in  a  curious  pucker. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  he  asked,  as  she  remained 
silent. 

"  Think  of  it  ?  About  as  pretty  a  snarl  as  ever  I  see.  I 
can't  say  as  I  'm  so  over  and  above  taken  aback  by  what 
your  mother  says.  I  've  all  along  had  a  hankerin'  suspi 
cion  of  it  in  my  bones.  Some  things  seems  to  me  like 
the  smell  o'  water-melons,  that  I  've  knowed  to  come  with 
fresh  snow  ;  you  know  there  is  no  water-melons,  but  then, 
there  's  the  srnell  of  'em  !  But  it  won't  do  to  hurry  a  mat 
ter  o'  this  kind  —  long-suiferin'  and  slow  to  anger,  though 
that  don't  quite  suit,  but  never  mind,  all  the  same  —  my 
opinion  is,  ye  've  both  o'  ye  got  to  wait ! " 

"  Betsy,  do  you  know  nothing  about  it  ?  Can  you  guess 
nothing  ?  "  Gilbert  persisted. 

She  stole  a  quick  glance  at  Martha,  which  he  detected, 
and  a  chill  ran  through  his  blood.  His  face  grew  pale. 

"  Nothin'  that  fits  your  case,"  said  Miss  Lavender,  pres 
ently.  She  saw  the  renewal  of  Gilbert's  suspicion,  and 
was  casting  about  in  her  mind  how  to  allay  it  without  indi 
cating  something  else  which  she  wished  to  conceal.  "  This 
I  '11  say,"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  with  desperate  frankness, 
"  that  I  do  know  somethin'  that  may  be  o'  use,  when  things 
comes  to  the  wust,  as  I  hope  they  won't,  but  it 's  neither 
here  nor  there  so  far  as  you  two  are  concerned ;  so  don't 
ask  me,  for  I  won't  tell,  and  if  it 's  to  be  done,  1  'm  the  only 
one  to  do  it !  If  I  've  got  my  little  secrets,  I  'm  keepin' 
'em  in  your  interest,  remember  that !  " 

There  was  the  glimmer  of  a  tear  in  each  of  Miss  Laven 
der's  eyes  before  she  knew  it. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  .189 

"  Betsy,  my  dear  friend  !  "  cried  Gilbert,  "  we  know  you 
and  trust  you.  Only  say  this,  for  my  sake  —  that  you  think 
my  mother's  secret  is  nothing  which  will  part  Martha  and 
me!" 

"  Martha  and  me.  I  do  think  so  —  am  I  a  dragon,  or  a 
—  what  's  that  Job  talks  about  ?  —  a  behemoth  ?  It 's  no 
use  ;  we  must  all  wait  and  see  what  '11  turn  up.  But,  Mar 
tha,  I  've  rather  a  bright  thought,  for  a  wonder  ;  what  if  we 
could  bring  Alf.  Barton  into  the  plot,  and  git  him  to  help 
us  for  the  sake  o'  his  bein'  helped  ?  " 

Martha  looked  surprised,  but  Gilbert  flushed  up  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair,  and  set  his  lips  firmly  together. 

"  I  dunno  as  it  '11  do,"  continued  Miss  Betsy,  with  perfect 
indifference  to  these  signs.  u  but  then  it  might.  First  and 
foremost,  we  must  try  to  find  out  what  he  wants,  for  it  is  n't 
you,  Martha ;  so  you,  Gilbert,  might  as  well  be  a  little  more 
of  a  cowcumber  than  you  are  at  this  present  moment  But 
if  it 's  nothin'  ag'inst  the  law,  and  not  likely,  for  he  's  too 
cute,  we  might  even  use  a  vessel  —  well,  not  exackly  o' 
wrath,  but  somethin'  like  it.  There  's  more  'n  one  concern 
at  work  in  all  this,  it  strikes  me,  and  it 's  wuth  while  to 
know  'em  all." 

Gilbert  was  ashamed  of  his  sensitiveness  in  regard  to 
Barton,  especially  after  Martha's  frank  and  merry  confes 
sion  ;  so  he  declared  himself  entirely  willing  to  abide  by  her 
judgment. 

"  It  would  not  be  pleasant  to  have  Alfred  Barton  asso 
ciated  with  us,  even  in  the  way  of  help,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  a  woman's  curiosity  to  know  what  he  means,  I  confess ; 
but,  unless  Betsy  could  make  the  discovery  without  me,  I 
would  not  take  any  steps  towards  it." 

"  Much  would  be  fittin'  to  me,  child,"  said  Miss  Laven 
der.  "  that  would  n't  pass  for  you,  at  all.  TTe  've  got  six 
weeks  till  Gilbert  comes  back,  and  no  need  o'  hurry,  ex 
cept  our  arrand  to  Polly  "Withers's,  which  '11  come  to  noth 
in',  unless  you  each  take  leave  of  other  mighty  quick,  while 
I  'm  lookin'  for  some  more  wintergreen." 


190  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

With  these  words  she  turned  short  around  and  strode 
away. 

"  It  had  best  be  our  own  secret  yet,  Martha  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Gilbert,  and  all  the  more  precious." 

They  clasped  hands  and  kissed,  once,  twice,  thrice,  and 
then  the  underwood  slowly  deepened  between  them,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  forest  separated  them  from  each  other. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  191 


CHAPTER 

SANDY   FLASH    REAPPEARS. 

DURING  the  month  of  October,  while  Gilbert  Potter  was 
occupied  with  his  lonely  and  monotonous  task,  he  had  am 
ple  leisure  to  evolve  a  clear,  calm,  happy  purpose  from  the 
tumult  of  his  excited  feelings.  This  was,  first,  to  accom 
plish  his  own  independence,  which  now  seemed  inevitably 
necessary,  for  his  mother's  sake,  and  its  possible  conse 
quences  to  her ;  then,  strong  in  the  knowledge  of  Martha 
Deane's  fidelity,  to  wait  with  her. 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  days  of  rainy  weather,  his 
hauling  prospered,  and  he  returned  home  after  five  weeks' 
absence,  to  count  up  the  gains  of  the  year  and  find  that 
very  little  was  lacking  of  the  entire  amount  to  be  paid. 

Mary  Potter,  as  the  prospect  of  release  drew  so  near, 
became  suddenly  anxious  and  restless.  The  knowledge 
that  a  very  large  sum  of  money  (as  she  considered  it)  was 
in  the  house,  filled  her  with  a  thousand  new  fears.  There 
were  again  rumors  of  Sandy  Flash  lurking  around  Marl- 
borough,  and  she  shuddered  and  trembled  whenever  his 
name  was  mentioned.  Her  uneasiness  became  at  last  so 
great  that  Gilbert  finally  proposed  writing  to  the  conveyan 
cer  in  Chester  who  held  the  mortgage,  and  asking  whether 
the  money  might  not  as  well  be  paid  at  once,  since  he  had 
it  in  hand,  as  wait  until  the  following  spring. 

*'  It 's  not  the  regular  way,"  said  she,  "  but  then,  I  sup 
pose  it  '11  hold  in  law.  You  can  ask  Mr.  Trainer  about 
that.  0  Gilbert,  if  it  can  be  done,  it  '11  take  a  great  load 
off  my  mind  ! " 

"  Whatever  puts  the  mortgage  into  my  hands,  mother," 


192  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

said  he,  "  is  legal  enough  for  us.  I  need  n't  even  wait  to 
sell  the  grain  ;  Mark  Deane  will  lend  me  the  seventy-five 
dollars  still  to  be  made  up,  if  he  has  them  —  or,  if  he 
can't,  somebody  else  will.  I  was  going  to  the  Square  this 
evening ;  so  I  '11  write  the  letter  at  once,  and  put  it  in  the 
office." 

The  first  thing  Gilbert  did,  on  reaching  the  village,  was 
to  post  the  letter  in  season  for  the  mail-rider,  who  went 
once  a  week  to  and  fro  between  Chester  and  Peach-bottom 
Ferry,  on  the  Susquehanna.  Then  he  crossed  the  street  to 
Dr.  Deane's,  in  order  to  inquire  for  Mark,  but  with  the 
chief  hope  of  seeing  Martha  for  one  sweet  moment,  at 
least.  In  this,  however,  he  was  disappointed ;  as  he  reached 
the  gate,  Mark  issued  from  the  door. 

"Why,  Gilbert,  old  boy!"  he  shouted;  "the  sight  o' 
you  's  good  for  sore  eyes  !  What  have  you  been  about 
since  that  Sunday  evening  we  rode  up  the  west  branch  ? 
I  was  jist  steppin'  over  to  the  tavern  to  see  the  fellows  — 
come  along,  and  have  a  glass  o'  Rye  !  " 

He  threw  his  heavy  arm  over  Gilbert's  shoulder,  and 
drew  him  along. 

"  In  a  minute,  Mark  ;  wait  a  bit  —  I  've  a  little  matter 
of  business  with  you.  I  need  to  borrow  seventy-five  dol 
lars  for  a  month  or  six  weeks,  until  my  wheat  is  sold. 
Have  you  that  much  that  you  're  not  using  ?  " 

"  That  and  more  comin'  to  me  soon,"  said  Mark,  "  and 
of  course  you  can  have  it.  Want  it  right  away  ?  " 

"  Very  likely  in  ten  or  twelve  days." 

"  Oh,  well,  never  fear  —  I  '11  have  some  accounts  squared 
by  that  time  !  Come  along ! "  And  therewith  the  good- 
natured  fellow  hurried  his  friend  into  the  bar-room  of  the 
Unicorn. 

"  Done  pretty  well,  haulin',  this  time  ?  "  asked  Mark,  as 
they  touched  glasses. 

"Very  well,"  answered  Gilbert,  "seeing  it  's  the  last 
time.  I  'm  at  an  end  with  hauling  now." 


THE   STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  193 

"  You  don't  say  so  ?  Here  's  to  your  good  luck ! "  ex 
claimed  Mark,  emptying  his  glass. 

A  man,  who  had  been  tilting  his  chair  against  the  wall, 
in  the  farther  corner  of  the  room,  now  arose  and  came  for 
ward.  It  was  Alfred  Barton. 

During  Gilbert's  absence,  neither  this  gentleman's  plan 
nor  that  of  his  father,  had  made  much  progress.  It  was 
tolerably  easy,  to  be  sure,  to  give  the  old  man  the  impres 
sion  that  the  preliminary  arrangements  with  regard  to 
money  were  going  on  harmoniously ;  but  it  was  not  so  easy 
to  procure  Dr.  Deane's  acceptance  of  the  part  marked  out 
for  him.  Alfred  had  sought  an  interview  with  the  latter 
soon  after  that  which  he  had  had  with  Martha,  and  the 
result  was  not  at  all  satisfactory.  The  wooer  had  been 
obliged  to  declare  that  his  suit  was  unsuccessful ;  but,  he 
believed,  only  temporarily  so.  Martha  had  been  taken  by 
surprise  ;  the  question  had  come  upon  her  so  suddenly  that 
she  could  scarcely  be  said  to  know  her  own  mind,  and  time 
must  be  allowed  her.  Although  this  statement  seemed 
probable  to  Dr.  Deane,  as  it  coincided  with  his  own  expe 
rience  in  previously  sounding  his  daughter's  mind,  yet  Al 
fred's  evident  anxiety  that  nothing  should  be  said  to  Martha 
upon  the  subject,  and  that  the  Doctor  should  assume  to  his 
father  that  the  question  of  balancing  her  legacy  was  as 
good  as  settled,  (then  proceed  at  once  to  the  discussion  of 
the  second  and  more  important  question,)  excited  the  Doc 
tor's  suspicions.  He  could  not  well  avoid  giving  the  re 
quired  promise  in  relation  to  Martha,  but  he  insisted  on 
seeing  the  legal  evidences  of  Alfred  Barton's  property,  be 
fore  going  a  step  further. 

The  latter  was  therefore  in  a  state  of  great  perplexity. 
The  game  he  was  playing  seemed  safe  enough,  so  far,  but 
nothing  had  come  of  it,  and  beyond  this  point  it  could  not 
be  carried,  without  great  increase  of  risk.  He  was  more 
than  once  tempted  to  drop  it  entirely,  confessing  his  com 
plete  and  final  rejection,  and  allowing  his  father  to  take 

13 


194  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

what  course  he  pleased ;  but  presently  the  itching  of  his 
avaricious  curiosity  returned  in  full  force,  and  suggested 
new  expedients. 

No  suspicion  of  Gilbert  Potter's  relation  to  Martha 
Deane  had  ever  entered  his  mind.  He  had  always  had  a 
liking  for  the  young  man,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  done 
him  any  good  service  which  did  not  require  the  use  of 
money.  He  now  came  forward  very  cordially  and  shook 
hands  with  the  two. 

Gilbert  had  self-possession  enough  to  control  his  first  im 
pulse,  and  to  meet  his  rival  with  his  former  manner.  Se 
cure  in  his  own  fortune,  he  even  felt  that  he  could  afford  to 
be  magnanimous,  and  thus,  by  degrees,  the  dislike  wore  off 
which  Martha's  confession  had  excited. 

"  What  is  all  this  talk  about  Sandy  Flash  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  's  been  seen  up  above,"  said  Barton ;  "  some  say, 
about  Marlborough,  and  some,  along  the  Strasburg  road. 
He  '11  hardly  come  this  way ;  he  's  too  cunning  to  go  where 
the  people  are  prepared  to  receive  him." 

If  either  of  the  three  had  happened  to  look  steadily  at 
the  back  window  of  the  bar-room,  they  might  have  detected, 
in  the  dusk,  the  face  of  Dougherty,  the  Irish  ostler  of  the 
Unicorn  Tavern.  It  disappeared  instantly,  but  there  was 
a  crack  nearly  half  an  inch  wide  between  the  bottom  of 
the  back-door  and  the  sill  under  it,  and  to  that  crack  a 
large,  flat  ear  was  laid. 

"  If  he  comes  any  nearer,  you  must  send  word  around  at 
once,"  said  Gilbert,  —  "  not  wait  until  he  's  already  among 
us." 

"  Let  me  alone  for  that !  "  Barton  exclaimed ;  "  Damn 
him,  I  only  wish  he  had  pluck  enough  to  come  ! " 

Mark  was  indignant.  "  What 's  the  sheriff  and  con 
stables  good  for  ?  "  he  cried.  "  It 's  a  burnin'  shame  that 
the  whole  country  has  been  plundered  so  long,  and  the 
fellow  still  runnin'  at  large.  Much  he  cares  for  the  five 
hundred  dollars  on  his  head." 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  195 

"  It 's  a  thousand,  now,"  said  Barton.  "  They  've  doubled 
it." 

"  Come,  that  'd  be  a  good  haul  for  us.  We  're  not  bound 
to  keep  inside  of  our  township ;  I  'm  for  an  up  and  down 
chase  all  over  the  country,  as  soon  as  the  fall  work  's 
over ! " 

«  And  I,  too,"  said  Gilbert 

"  You  're  fellows  after  my  own  heart,  both  o'  you  !  "  Bar 
ton  asserted,  slapping  them  upon  the  back.  "  What  '11 
you  take  to  drink  ?  " 

By  this  time  several  others  had  assembled,  and  the  con 
versation  became  general.  While  the  flying  rumors  about 
Sandy  Flash  were  being  produced  and  discussed,  Barton . 
drew  Gilbert  aside. 

"  Suppose  we  step  out  on  the  back-porch,"  he  said,  "  I 
want  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

The  door  closed  between  them  and  the  noisy  bar-room. 
There  was  a  rustling  noise  under  the  porch,  as  of  a  fowl 
disturbed  on  its  roost,  and  then  everything  was  still. 

"Your  speaking  of  your  having  done  well  by  hauling 
put  it  into  my  head,  Gilbert,"  Barton  continued.  "I 
wanted  to  borrow  a  little  money  for  a  while,  and  there  's 
reasons  why  I  should  n't  call  upon  anybody  who  'd  tell  of 
it.  Now,  as  you  've  got  it,  lying  idle  "  — 

"It  happens  to  be  just  the  other  way,  Barton,"  said  Gil 
bert,  interrupting  him.  "  I  came  here  to-night  to  borrow." 

"  How  's  that  ?  "  Barton  could  not  help  asking,  with  a 
momentary  sense  of  chagrin.  But  the  next  moment  he 
added,  in  a  milder  tone,  "  I  don't  mean  to  pry  into  your 
business." 

••  I  shall  very  likely  have  to  use  my  money  soon,"  Gil 
bert  explained,  "  and  must  at  least  wait  until  I  hear  from 
Chester.  That  will  be  another  week,  and  then,  if  the 
money  should  not  be  wanted,  I  can  accommodate  you.  But, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  dont  think  there  's  much  chance  of 
that" 


196  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Shall  you  have  to  go  down  to  Chester  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"When?" 

"  In  ten  or  twelve  days  from  now." 

"Then,"  said  Barton,  "I'll  fix  it  this  way.  T is  n't 
only  the  money  I  want,  but  to  have  it  paid  in  Chester, 
without  the  old  man  or  Stacy  knowing  anything  of  the 
matter.  If  I  was  to  go  myself,  Stacy  'd  never  rest  till  he 
found  out  my  business  —  Faith  !  I  believe  if  I  was  hid 
in  the  hayloft  o'  the  William  Penn  Tavern,  he  'd  scent 
me  out.  Now,  I  can  get  the  money  of  another  fellow  I 
know,  if  you  '11  take  it  down  and  hand  it  over  for  me. 
Would  you  be  that  obliging  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  Gilbert  answered.  "  If  I  go  it  will  be  no 
additional  trouble." 

"  All  right,"  said  Barton,  "  between  ourselves,  you  un 
derstand." 

A  week  later,  a  letter,  with  the  following  address  was 
brought  to  the  post-office  by  the  mail-rider,  — 

«  To,  Mr.  Gilbert  Potter,  Esq™ 

Kennett  Square  P.  0. 
These,  with  Care  and  Speed" 

Gilbert,  having  carefully  cut  around  the  wafer  and  un 
folded  the  sheet  of  strong  yellowish  paper,  read  this  mis 
sive,  — 

"Sra:  Yr  respd  favour  of  yel  11th  came  duly  to  hand, 
and  ye  proposition  wh  it  contains  has  been  submitted  to 
M*  Jones,  ye  present  houlder  of  ye  mortgage.  He  wishes 
me  to  inform  you  that  he  did  not  anticipate  ye  payment 
before  ye  first  day  of  April,  1797,  wh  was  ye  term  agreed 
upon  at  ye  payment  of  ye  first  note ;  nevertheless,  being 

1  This  form  of  the  article,  though  in  general  disuse  at  the  time,  was  still 
frequently  employed  in  epistolary  writing,  in  that  part  of  Pennsylvania. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  197 

required  to  accept  full  and  lawful  payment,  whensoever 
tendered,  he  hath  impowered  me  to  receive  ye  moneys 
at  yr  convenience,  providing  ye  settlement  be  full  and  com- 
pleat,  as  aforesaid,  and  not  merely  ye  payment  of  a  part  or 
portion  thereof. 

«Yrob'tserv't, 

"  ISAAC  TRAINER." 

Gilbert,  with  his  limited  experience  of  business  matters, 
had  entirely  overlooked  the  fact,  that  the  permission  of  the 
creditor  is  not  necessary  to  the  payment  of  a  debt  He 
had  a  profound  respect  for  all  legal  forms,  and  his  indebted 
ness  carried  with  it  a  sense  of  stern  and  perpetual  respon 
sibility,  which,  alas  !  has  not  always  been  inherited  by  the 
descendants  of  that  simple  and  primitive  period. 

Mary  Potter  received  the  news  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
The  money  was  again  counted,  the  interest  which  would 
be  due  somewhat  laboriously  computed,  and  finally  noth 
ing  remained  but  the  sum  which  Mark  Deane  had  prom 
ised  to  furnish.  This  Mark  expected  to  receive  on  the 
following  Wednesday,  and  Gilbert  and  his  mother  agreed 
that  the  journey  to  Chester  should  be  made  at  the  close 
of  the  same  week. 

They  went  over  these  calculations  in  the  quiet  of  the 
Sabbath  afternoon,  sitting  alone  in  the  neat,  old-fashioned 
kitchen,  with  the  dim  light  of  an  Indian-summer  sun  strik 
ing  through  the  leafless  trumpet- vines,  and  making  a  quaint 
network  of  light  and  shade  on  the  whitewashed  window- 
frame.  The  pendulum  ticked  drowsily  along  the  opposite 
wall,  and  the  hickory  back-log  on  the  hearth  hummed  a 
lamentable  song  through  all  its  simmering  pores  of  sap. 
Peaceful  as  the  happy  landscape  without,  dozing  in  dreams 
of  the  departed  summer,  cheery  as  the  tidy  household  signs 
within,  seemed  at  last  the  lives  of  the  two  inmates.  Mary 
Potter  had  not  asked  how  her  son's  wooing  had  further 
sped,  but  she  felt  that  he  was  contented  of  heart ;  she,  too, 


198  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

indulging  finally  in  the  near  consummation  of  her  hopes, 
—  which  touched  her  like  the  pitying  sympathy  of  the 
Power  that  had  dealt  so  singularly  with  her  life,  —  was 
nearer  the  feeling  of  happiness  than  she  had  been  for  long 
and  weary  years. 

Gilbert  was  moved  by  the  serenity  of  her  face,  and 
the  trouble,  which  he  knew  it  concealed,  seemed,  to  his 
mind,  to  be  wearing  away.  Carefully  securing  the  doors, 
they  walked  over  the  fields  together,  pausing  on  the  hill 
top  to  listen  to  the  caw  of  the  gathering  crows,  or  to  watch 
the  ruby  disc  of  the  beamless  sun  stooping  to  touch  the 
western  rim  of  the  valley.  Many  a  time  had  they  thus 
gone  over  the  farm  together,  but  never  before  with  such 
a  sense  of  peace  and  security.  The  day  was  removed, 
mysteriously,  from  the  circle  of  its  fellows,  and  set  apart 
by  a  peculiar  influence  which  prevented  either  from  ever 
forgetting  it,  during  all  the  years  that  came  after. 

They  were  not  aware  that  at  the  very  moment  this  in 
fluence  was  profoundest  in  their  hearts,  new  rumors  of 
Sandy  Flash's  movements  had  reached  Kennett  Square, 
and  were  being  excitedly  discussed  at  the  Unicorn  Tavern. 
He  had  been  met  on  the  Street  Road,  riding  towards  the 

O 

Red  Lion,  that  very  afternoon,  by  a  man  who  knew  his 
face ;  and,  later  in  the  evening  came  a  second  report,  that 
an  individual  of  his  build  had  crossed  the  Philadelphia 
Road,  this  side  of  the  Anvil,  and  gone  southward  into  the 
woods.  Many  were  the  surmises,  and  even  detailed  ac 
counts,  of  robberies  that  either  had  been  or  might  be  com 
mitted,  but  no  one  could  say  precisely  how  much  was  true. 
Mark  Deane  was  not  at  home,  and  the  blacksmith  was 
commissioned  to  summon  Alfred  Barton,  who  had  ridden 
over  to  Pennsbury,  on  a  friendly  visit  to  Mr.  Joel  Ferris. 
When  he  finally  made  his  appearance,  towards  ten  o'clock, 
he  was  secretly  horror-stricken  at  the  great  danger  he  had 
escaped ;  but  it  gave  him  an  admirable  opportunity  to 
swagger.  He  could  do  no  less  than  promise  to  summon 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  199 

the  volunteers  in  the  morning,  and  provision  was  made 
accordingly,  for  despatching  as  many  messengers  as  the 
village  could  afford. 

Since  the  British  occupation,  nearly  twenty  years  before, 
Kennett  Square  had  not  known  as  lively  a  day  as  that 
which  followed.  The  men  and  boys  were  in  the  street, 
grouped  in  front  of  the  tavern,  the  women  at  the  windows, 
watching,  some  with  alarmed,  but  many  with  amused  faces. 
Sally  Fairthom,  although  it  was  washing-day,  stole  up 
through  Dr.  Deane's  garden  and  into  Martha's  room,  for 
at  least  half  an  hour,  but  Joe  and  Jake  left  their  over 
turned  shocks  of  corn  unhusked  for  the  whole  day. 

Some  of  the  young  fanners  to  whom  the  message  had 
been  sent,  returned  answer  that  they  were  very  busy  and 
could  not  leave  their  work ;  the  horses  of  others  were  lame  ; 
the  guns  of  others  broken.  By  ten  o'clock,  however,  there 
were  nine  volunteers,  very  irregularly  armed  and  mounted, 
in  attendance  ;  by  eleven  o'clock,  thirteen,  and  Alfred  Bar 
ton,  whose  place  as  leader  was  anything  but  comfortable, 
began  to  swell  with  an  air  of  importance,  and  set  about 
examining  the  guns  of  his  command.  Neither  he  nor  any 
one  else  noticed  particularly  that  the  Irish  ostler  appeared 
to  be  a  great  connoisseur  in  muskets,  and  was  especially 
interested  in  the  structure  of  the  flints  and  pans. 

"  Let 's  look  over  the  roll,  and  see  how  many  are  true 
blue,"  said  Barton,  drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket. 
"  There 's  failing  nine  or  ten,  among  'em  some  I  fully 
counted  on  —  Withers,  he  may  come  yet ;  Ferris,  hardly 
time  to  get  word  ;  but  Carson,  Potter,  and  Travilla  ought 
to  turn  up  curst  soon,  or  we  '11  have  the  sport  without  'em  ! " 

"  Give  me  a  horse,  Mr.  Barton,  and  I  '11  ride  down  for 
Gilbert !  "  cried  Joe  Fairthom. 

"  No  use,  —  Giles  went  this  morning,"  growled  Barton. 

"  It 's  time  we  were  starting  ;  which  road  would  be  best 
to  take  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  volunteers. 

"  All  roads  lead  to  Rome,  but  all  don't  lead  to  Sandy 


200  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Flash,  ha  !  ha  !  "  said  another,  laughing  at  his  own  smart 
ness. 

"  Who  knows  where  he  was  seen  last  ?  "  Barton  asked, 
but  it  was  not  easy  to  get  a  coherent  answer.  One  had 
heard  one  report,  and  another  another  ;  he  had  been  seen 
from  the  Street  Road  on  the  north  all  the  way  around 
eastward  by  the  Red  Lion  and  the  Anvil,  and  in  the  rocky 
glen  below  the  Barton  farm,  to  the  lime-quarries  of  Tuff- 
kenamon  on  the  west. 

"  Unless  we  scatter,  it  '11  be  like  looking  for  a  needle 
in  a  haystack,"  remarked  one  of  the  more  courageous  vol 
unteers. 

"  If  they  'd  all  had  spunk  enough  to  come,"  said  Barton, 
"  we  might  ha'  made  four  parties,  and  gone  out  on  each 
road.  As  it  is,  we  're  only  strong  enough  for  two." 

"  Seven  to  one  ?  —  that 's  too  much  odds  in  Sandy's 
favor  !  "  cried  a  light-headed  youth,  whereat  the  others  all 
laughed,  and  some  of  them  blushed  a  little. 

Barton  bit  his  lip,  and  with  a  withering  glance  at  the 
young  man,  replied,  —  "  Then  we  '11  make  three  parties, 
and  you  shall  be  the  third." 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  having  elapsed,  without  any 
accession  to  the  troop,  Barton  reluctantly  advised  the  men 
to  get  their  arms,  which  had  been  carelessly  placed  along 
the  tavern-porch,  and  to  mount  for  the  chase. 

Just  then  Joe  and  Jake  Fairthorn,  who  had  been  dodg 
ing  back  and  forth  through  the  village,  watching  the  roads, 
made  their  appearance  with  the  announcement,  — 

"  Hurray  —  there  's  another  —  comin'  up  from  below, 
but  it  a'n't  Gilbert.  He  's  stuck  full  o'  pistols,  but  he  's 
a-foot,  and  you  must  git  him  a  horse.  I  tell  you,  he  looks 
like  a  real  buster  ! " 

«  Who  can  it  be  ?  "  asked  Barton. 

"  We  '11  see,  in  a  minute,"  said  the  nearest  volunteers, 
taking  up  their  muskets. 

"  There  he  is,  —  there  he  is  !  "  cried  Joe. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  201 

All  eyes,  turned  towards  the  crossing  of  the  roads,  be 
held,  just  rounding  the  comer-house,  fifty  paces  distant, 
a  short,  broad-shouldered,  determined  figure,  making  di 
rectly  for  the  tavern.  His  face  was  red  and  freckled,  his 
thin  lips  half-parted  with  a  grin  which  showed  the  flash  of 
white  teeth  between  them,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with  the 
light  of  a  cold,  fierce  courage.  He  had  a  double-barrelled 
musket  on  his  shoulder,  and  there  were  four  pistols  in  the 
ticrlit  leathern  belt  about  his  waist 

O 

Barton  turned  deadly  pale  as  he  beheld  this  man.  An 
astonished  silence  fell  upon  the  group,  but,  the  next  mo 
ment,  some  voice  exclaimed,  in  an  undertone,  which,  nev 
ertheless,  every  one  heard,  — 

"  By  the  living  Lord !     Sandy  Flash  himself!  " 

There  was  a  general  confused  movement,  of  which  Al 
fred  Barton  took  advantage  to  partly  cover  his  heavy  body 
by  one  of  the  porch-pillars.  Some  of  the  volunteers  started 
back,  others  pressed  closer  together.  The  pert  youth, 
alone,  who  was  to  form  the  third  party,  brought  his  mus 
ket  to  his  shoulder. 

Quick  as  lightning  Sandy  Flash  drew  a  pistol  from  his 
belt  and  levelled  it  at  the  young  man's  breast. 

"  Ground  arms  !  "  he  cried,  "  or  you  are  a  dead  man." 

He  was  obeyed,  although  slowly  and  with  grinding  teeth. 

"  Stand  aside  !  "  he  then  commanded.  "  You  have  pluck, 
and  I  should  hate  to  shoot  you.  Make  way,  the  rest  o' 
ye !  I  Ve  saved  ye  the  trouble  o'  ridin'  far  to  find  me. 
Whoever  puts  finger  to  trigger,  falls.  Back,  back,  I  say, 
and  open  the  door  for  me ! " 

Still  advancing  as  he  spoke,  and  shifting  his  pistol  so  as 
to  cover  now  one,  now  another  of  the  group,  he  reached 
the  tavern-porch.  Some  one  opened  the  door  of  the  bar 
room,  which  swung  inwards.  The  highwayman  strode 
directly  to  the  bar,  and  there  stood,  facing  the  open  door, 
while  he  cried  to  the  trembling  bar-keeper,  — 

"  A  glass  o'  Rye,  good  and  strong !  " 


202  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

It  was  set  before  him.  Holding  the  musket  in  his  arm, 
he  took  the  glass,  drank,  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand,  and  then,  spinning  a  silver  dollar  into  the  air, 
said,  as  it  rang  upon  the  floor,  — 

"7  stand  treat  to-day  ;  let  the  rest  o'  the  gentlemen  drink 
at  my  expense  ! " 

He  then  walked  out,  and  slowly  retreated  backwards 
towards  the  corner-house,  covering  his  retreat  with  the 
levelled  pistol,  and  the  flash  of  his  dauntless  eye. 

He  had  nearly  reached  the  corner,  when  Gilbert  Potter 
dashed  up  behind  him,  with  Roger  all  in  a  foam.  Joe 
Fairthorn,  seized  with  deadly  terror  when  he  heard  the 
terrible  name,  had  set  off  at  full  speed  for  home  ;  but  de 
scrying  Gilbert  approaching  on  a  gallop,  changed  his  course, 
met  the  latter,  and  gasped  out  the  astounding  intelligence. 
All  this  was  the  work  of  a  minute,  and  when  Gilbert 
reached  the  corner,  a  single  glance  showed  him  the  true 
state  of  affairs.  The  confused  group  in  front  of  the  tavern, 
some  faces  sallow  with  cowardice,  some  red  with  indigna 
tion  and  shame ;  the  solitary,  retreating  figure,  alive  in 
every  nerve  with  splendid  courage,  told  him  the  whole 
story,  which  Joe's  broken  words  had  only  half  hinted. 

Flinging  himself  from  his  horse,  he  levelled  his  musket, 
and  cried  out,  — 

"  Surrender ! " 

Sandy  Flash,  with  a  sudden  spring,  placed  his  back 
against  the  house,  pointed  his  pistol  at  Gilbert,  and  said : 
"  Drop  your  gun,  or  I  fire  ! " 

For  answer,  Gilbert  drew  the  trigger  ;  the  crack  of  the 
explosion  rang  sharp  and  clear,  and  a  little  shower  of  mor 
tar  covered  Sandy  Flash's  cocked  hat.  The  ball  had 
struck  the  wall  about  four  inches  above  his  head. 

He  leaped  forward ;  Gilbert  clubbed  his  musket  and 
awaited  him.  They  were  scarcely  two  yards  apart ;  the 
highwayman's  pistol  -  barrel  was  opposite  Gilbert's  heart, 
and  the  two  men  were  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  203 

The  group  in  front  of  the  tavern  stood  as  if  paralyzed, 
every  man  holding  his  breath. 

"  Halt !  "  said  Sandy  Flash.  "  Halt !  I  hate  bloodshed, 
and  besides  that,  young  Potter,  you  're  not  the  man  that  '11 
take  me  prisoner.  I  could  blow  your  brains  out  by  movhV 
this  finger,  but  you  're  safe  from  any  bullet  o'  mine,  who 
ever  a'n't ! " 

At  the  last  words  a  bright,  mocking,  malicious  grin  stole 
over  his  face.  Gilbert,  amazed  to  find  himself  known  to 
the  highwayman,  and  puzzled  with  certain  familiar  marks 
in  the  latter's  countenance,  was  swiftly  enlightened  by  this 
grin.  It  was  Fortune's  face  before  him,  without  the  black 
hair  and  whiskers,  —  and  Fortune's  voice  that  spoke  ! 

Sandy  Flash  saw  the  recognition.  He  grinned  again. 
"  You  '11  know  your  friend,  another  time,"  he  said,  sprang 
five  feet  backward,  whirled,  gained  the  cover  of  the  house, 
and  was  mounting  his  horse  among  the  bushes  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  garden,  before  any  of  the  others  reached  Gil 
bert,  who  was  still  standing  as  if  thunder-struck. 

By  this  time  Sandy  Flash  had  leaped  the  hedge  and  was 
careering  like  lightning  towards  the  shelter  of  the  woods. 
The  interest  now  turned  upon  Gilbert  Potter,  who  was 
very  taciturn  and  thoughtful,  and  had  little  to  relate. 
They  noticed,  however,  that  his  eyes  were  turned  often 
and  inquiringly  upon  Alfred  Barton,  and  that  the  latter 
as  steadily  avoided  meeting  them. 

When  Gilbert  went  to  bring  Roger,  who  had  quietly 
waited  at  the  crossing  of  the  roads,  Deb.  Smith  suddenly 
made  her  appearance. 

"  I  seen  it  all,"  she  said.  "  I  was  a  bit  up  the  road,  but 
I  seen  it.  You  should  n't  ha'  shot,  Mr.  Gilbert,  though 
it  is  n't  him  that 's  born  to  be  hit  with  a  bullet ;  but  you  're 
safe  enough  from  his  bullets,  anyhow  —  whatever  happens, 
you  're  safe  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Deborah  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  as  she 
almost  repeated  to  him  Sandy  Flash's  very  words. 


204  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  she  answered.  "  You  would  n't  be 
afeard,  but  it  '11  be  a  comfort  to  your  mother.  I  must 
have  a  drink  o'  whiskey  after  that  sight." 

With  these  words  she  elbowed  her  way  into  the  bar 
room.  Most  of  the  Kennett  Volunteers  were  there  en 
gaged  in  carrying  out  a  similar  resolution.  They  would 
gladly  have  kept  the  whole  occurrence  secret,  but  that  was 
impossible.  It  was  known  all  over  the  country,  in  three 
days,  and  the  story  of  it  has  not  yet  died  out  of  the  locaf 
annals. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  205 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   HUSKING   FROLIC. 

JAKE  FAIRTHORN  rushed  into  Dr.  Deane's  door  with  a 
howl  of  terror. 

"  Cousin  Martha  !  Betsy !  "  he  cried ;  "  he  's  goin'  to 
shoot  Gilbert ! " 

"  None  o'  your  tricks,  boy  !  "  Betsy  Lavender  exclaimed, 
in  her  most  savage  tone,  as  she  saw  the  paleness  of  Mar 
tha's  face.  "  I  'm  up  to  'em.  Who  'd  shoot  Gilbert  Pot 
ter  ?  Not  Alf  Barton,  I  '11  be  bound ;  he  'd  be  afeard  to 
shoot  even  Sandy  Flash  !  " 

"  It 's  Sandy  Flash,  —  he  's  there  !  Gilbert  shot  his  hat 
off!"  cried  Jake. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  !  "  And  the  next  minute  Miss 
Betsy  found  herself,  she  scarcely  knew  how,  in  the  road. 

Both  had  heard  the  shot,  but  supposed  that  it  was  some 
volunteer  discharging  an  old  load  from  his  musket ;  they 
knew  nothing  of  Sandy's  visit  to  the  Unicorn,  and  Jake's 
announcement  seemed  simply  incredible. 

"  0  you  wicked  boy  !  TThat  '11  become  o'  you  ?  "  cried 
Miss  Lavender,  as  she  beheld  Gilbert  Potter  approaching, 
leading  Eoger  by  the  bridle.  But  at  the  same  instant  she 
saw,  from  the  faces  of  the  crowd,  that  something  unusual 
had  happened.  While  the  others  instantly  surrounded 
Gilbert,  the  young  volunteer  who  alone  had  made  any 
show  of  fight,  told  the  story  to  the  two  ladies.  Martha 
Deane's  momentary  shock  of  terror  disappeared  under  the 
rush  of  mingled  pride  and  scorn  which  the  narrative  called 
up  in  her  heart 


206  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  What  a  pack  of  cowards  !  "  she  exclaimed,  her  cheeks 
flushing,  —  "  to  stand  still  and  see  the  life  of  the  only  man 
that  dares  to  face  a  robber  at  the  mercy  of  the  robber's 
pistol ! " 

Gilbert  approached.  His  face  was  grave  and  thoughtful, 
but  his  eye  brightened  as  it  met  hers.  No  two  hands  ever 
conveyed  so  many  and  such  swift  messages  as  theirs,  in  the 
single  moment  when  they  touched  each  other.  The  other 
women  of  the  village  crowded  around,  and  he  was  obliged, 
though  with  evident  reluctance,  to  relate  his  share  in  the 
event. 

In  the  mean  time  the  volunteers  had  issued  from  the 
tavern,  and  were  loudly  discussing  what  course  to  pursue. 
The  most  of  them  were  in  favor  of  instant  pursuit.  To 
their  credit  it  must  be  said  that  very  few  of  them  were  act 
ual  cowards  ;  they  had  been  both  surprised  by  the  incred 
ible  daring  of  the  highwayman,  and  betrayed  by  the  cow 
ardly  inefficiency  of  their  own  leader.  Barton,  restored  to 
his  usual  complexion  by  two  glasses  of  whiskey,  was  nearly 
ready  to  head  a  chase  which  he  suspected  would  come  to 
nothing;  but  the  pert  young  volunteer,  who  had  been 
whispering  with  some  of  the  younger  men,  suddenly  cried 
out, — 

"  I  say,  fellows,  we  Ve  had  about  enough  o'  Barton's  com 
mand  ;  and  I,  for  one,  am  a-goin'  to  enlist  under  Captain 
Potter." 

"  Good ! "  "  Agreed  ! "  responded  a  number  of  others, 
and  some  eight  or  ten  stepped  to  one  side.  The  few  re 
maining  around  Alfred  Barton  began  to  look  doubtful,  and 
all  eyes  were  turned  curiously  upon  him. 

Gilbert,  however,  stepped  forward  and  said :  "  It 's  bad 
policy  to  divide  our  forces  just  now,  when  we  ought  to  be 
off  on  the  hunt.  Mr.  Barton,  we  all  know,  got  up  the  com 
pany,  and  I  am  willing  to  serve  under  him,  if  he  '11  order 
us  to  mount  at  once !  If  not,  rather  than  lose  more  time, 
I  '11  head  as  many  as  are  ready  to  go." 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  207 

Barton  saw  how  the  tide  was  turning,  and  suddenly  de 
termined  to  cover  up  his  shame,  if  possible,  with  a  mantle 
of  magnanimity. 

«  The  fellows  are  right,  Gilbert ! "  he  said.  "  You  deserve 
to  take  the  lead  to-day,  so  go  ahead  ;  I  '11  follow  you !  " 

"  Mount,  then,  all  of  you  !  "  Gilbert  cried,  without  further 
hesitation.  In  a  second  he  was  on  Roger's  back.  "  You, 
Barton,"  he  ordered,  "  take  three  with  you  and  make  for  the 
New-Garden  cross-road  as  fast  as  you  can.  Pratt,  you  and 
three  more  towards  the  Hammer-and-Trowel ;  while  I,  with 
the  rest,  follow  the  direct  trail." 

Xo  more  time  was  wasted  in  talking.  The  men  took 
their  guns  and  mounted,  the  two  detached  commands  were 
told  off,  and  in  five  minutes  the  village  was  left  to  its  own 
inhabitants. 

Gilbert  had  a  long  and  perplexing  chase,  but  very  little 
came  of  it.  The  trail  of  Sandy  Flash's  horse  was  followed 
without  much  difficulty  until  it  struck  the  west  branch  of 
Redley  Creek.  There  it  suddenly  ceased,  and  more  than 
an  hour  elapsed  before  some  one  discovered  it,  near  the 
road,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  up  the  stream.  Thence 
it  turned  towards  the  Hammer-and-Trowel,  but  no  one  at 
the  farm-houses  on  the  road  had  seen  any  one  pass  except 
a  Quaker,  wearing  the  usual  broad-brimmed  hat  and  drab 
coat,  and  mounted  on  a  large,  sleepy-looking  horse. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  Gilbert  detected,  in 
one  of  the  lanes  leading  across  to  the  Street  Road,  the 
marks  of  a  galloping  steed,  and  those  who  had  a  little  lin 
gering  knowledge  of  wood-craft  noticed  that  the  gallop 
often  ceased  suddenly,  changed  to  a  walk,  and  was  then  as 
suddenly  resumed.  Along  the  Street  Road  no  one  had 
been  seen  except  a  Quaker,  apparently  the  same  person. 
Gilbert  and  his  hunters  now  suspected  the  disguise,  but  the 
difficulty  of  following  the  trail  had  increased  with  every 
hour  of  lost  time ;  and  after  scouring  along  the  Brandywine 
and  then  crossing  into  the  Pocopsin  valley,  they  finally 


208  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

gave  up  the  chase,  late  in  the  day.  It  was  the  general 
opinion  that  Sandy  had  struck  northward,  and  was  proba 
bly  safe  in  one  of  his  lairs  among  the  Welch  Mountains. 

When  they  reached  the  Unicorn  tavern  at  dusk,  Gilbert 
found  Joe  Fairthorn  impatiently  waiting  for  him.  Sally 
had  been  "  tearin'  around  like  mad,"  (so  Joe  described  his 
sister's  excitement,)  having  twice  visited  the  village  during 
the  afternoon  in  the  hope  of  seeing  the  hero  of  the  day  — 
after  Sandy  Flash,  of  course,  who  had,  and  deserved,  the 
first  place. 

"  And,  Gilbert,"  said  Joe,  "  I  was  n't  to  forgit  to  tell  you 
that  we  're  a-goin'  to  have  a  huskin'  frolic  o'  Wednesday 
night,  —  day  after  to-morrow,  you  know.  Dad 's  behind 
hand  with  huskin',  and  the  moon  's  goin'  to  be  full,  and 
Mark  he  said  Let 's  have  a  frolic,  and  I  'm  comin'  home  to 
meet  Gilbert  anyhow,  and  so  I  '11  be  there.  And  Sally  she 
said  I  '11  have  Martha  and  lots  o'  girls,  only  we  shan't  come 
out  into  the  field  till  you  're  nigh  about  done.  Then  Mark 
he  said  That  won't  take  long,  and  if  you  don't  help  me  with 
my  shocks  I  won't  come,  and  Sally  she  hit  him,  and  so  it 's 
all  agreed.  And  you  '11  come,  Gilbert,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Joe,"  Gilbert  answered,  a  little  impatiently ; 
« tell  Sally  I  '11  come."  Then  he  turned  Roger's  head 
towards  home. 

He  was  glad  of  the  solitary  ride  which  allowed  him  to 
collect  his  thoughts.  Fearless  as  was  his  nature,  the  dan 
ger  he  had  escaped  might  well  have  been  cause  for  grave 
self-congratulation ;  but  the  thought  of  it  scarcely  lingered 
beyond  the  moment  of  the  encounter.  The  astonishing 
discovery  that  the  stranger,  Fortune,  and  the  redoubtable 
Sandy  Flash  were  one  and  the  same  person ;  the  mysteri 
ous  words  which  this  person  had  addressed  to  him ;  the 
repetition  of  the  same  words  by  Deb.  Smith,  —  all  these 
facts,  suggesting,  as  their  common  solution,  some  secret 
which  concerned  himself,  perplexed  his  mind,  already  more 
than  sufficiently  occupied  with  mystery. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT. 

It  suddenly  flashed  across  his  memory,  as  he  rode  home 
ward,  that  on  the  evening  when  he  returned  from  the  fox- 
chase,  his  mother  had  manifested  an  unusual  interest  in  the 
strange  huntsman,  questioning  him  minutely  as  to  the  lat- 
ter's  appearance.  Was  she  —  or,  rather,  had  she  been,  at 
one  time  of  her  life  —  acquainted  with  Sandy  Flash  ?  And 
if  so  — 

"  No ! "  he  cried  aloud,  "  it  is  impossible  !  It  could  not 
—  cannot  be!"  The  new  possibility  which  assailed  him 
was  even  more  terrible  than  his  previous  belief  in  the  dis 
honor  of  his  birth.  Better,  a  thousand  times,  he  thought, 
be  basely  born  than  the  son  of  an  outlaw  !  It  seemed  that 
every  attempt  he  made  to  probe  his  mother's  secret  threat 
ened  to  overwhelm  him  with  a  knowledge  far  worse  than 
the  fret  of  his  ignorance.  Why  not  be  patient,  therefore, 
leaving  the  solution  to  her  and  to  time  ? 

Nevertheless,  a  burning  curiosity  led  him  to  relate  to  his 
mother,  that  evening,  the  events  of  the  day.  He  watched 
her  closely  as  he  described  his  encounter  with  the  highway 
man,  and  repeated  the  latter's  words.  It  was  quite  natural 
that  Mary  Potter  should  shudder  and  turn  pale  during  the 
recital  —  quite  natural  that  a  quick  expression  of  relief 
should  shine  from  her  face  at  the  close  ;  but  Gilbert  could 
not  be  sure  that  her  interest  extended  to  any  one  except 
himself.  She  suggested  no  explanation  of  Sandy  Flash's 
words,  and  he  asked  none. 

"  I  shall  know  no  peace,  child,"  she  said,  "  until  the 
money  has  been  paid,  and  the  mortgage  is  in  your  hands." 

"  You  won't  have  long  tp  wait,  now,  mother,"  he  an 
swered  cheerily.  "  I  shall  see  Mark  on  Wednesday  even 
ing,  and  therefore  can  start  for  Chester  on  Friday,  come 
rain  or  shine.  As  for  Sandy  Flash,  he  's  no  doubt  up  on 
the  Welch  Mountain  by  this  time.  It  is. n't  his  way  to  turn 
up  twice  in  succession,  in  the  same  place." 

"  You  don't  know  him,  Gilbert.     He  won't  soon  forget 
that  you  shot  at  him." 
14 


210  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

"  I  seem  to  -be  safe  enough,  if  he  tells  the  truth,"  Gilbert 
could  not  help  remarking. 

Mary  Potter  shook  her  head,  and  said  nothing. 

Two  more  lovely  Indian-summer  days  went  by,  and  as 
the  wine-red  sun  slowly  quenched  his  lower  limb  in  the 
denser  smoke  along  the  horizon,  the  great  bronzed  moon 
struggled  out  of  it,  on  the  opposite  rim  of  the  sky.  It  was 
a  weird  light  and  a  weird  atmosphere,  such  as  we  might 
imagine  overspreading  Babylonian  ruins,  on  the  lone  plains 
of  the  Euphrates ;  but  no  such  fancies  either  charmed  or 
tormented  the  lusty,  wide-awake,  practical  lads  and  lasses, 
whom  the  brightening  moon  beheld  on  their  way  to  the 
Fairthorn  farm.  "The  best  night  for  huskin'  that  ever 
was,"  comprised  the  sum  of  their  appreciation. 

At  the  old  farm-house  there  was  great  stir  of  prepara 
tion.  Sally,  with  her  gown  pinned  up,  dodged  in  and  out 
of  kitchen  and  sitting-room,  catching  herself  on  every 
door-handle,  while  Mother  Fairthorn,  beaming  with  quiet 
content,  stood  by  the  fire,  and  inspected  the  great  kettles 
which  were  to  contain  the  materials  for  the  midnight  sup 
per.  Both  were  relieved  when  Betsy  Lavender  made  her 
appearance,  saying,  — 

"  Let  down  your  gownd,  Sally,  and  give  me  that  ladle. 
What  'd  be  a  mighty  heap  o'  work  for  you,  in  that  flustered 
condition,  is  child's-play  to  the  likes  o'  me,  that 's  as  steady 
as  a  cart-horse,  —  not  that  self-praise,  as  the  sayin'  is,  is  any 
recommendation,  —  but  my  kickin'  and  prancin'  days  is  over, 
and  high  time,  too." 

"  No,  Betsy,  I  '11  not  allow  it !  "  cried  Sally.  "  You  must 
enjoy  yourself,  too."  But  she  had  parted  with  the  ladle, 
while  speaking,  and  Miss  Lavender,  repeating  the  words 
"  Enjoy  yourself,  too  !  "  quietly  took  her  place  in  the 
kitchen. 

The  young  men,  as  they  arrived,  took  their  way  to  the 
corn-field,  piloted  by  Joe  and  Jake  Fairthorn.  These  boys 
each  carried  a  wallet  over  his  shoulders,  the  jug  in  the  front 


THE   STORY  OF    KEXXETT.  211 

end  balancing  that  behind,  and  the  only  casualty  that  oc 
curred  was  when  Jake,  jumping  down  from  a  fence,  allowed 
his  jugs  to  smite  together,  breaking  one  of  them  to  shivers. 

"  There,  that  '11  come  out  o'  your  pig-money,"  said  Joe. 

"  I  don't  care,"  Jake  retorted,  "  if  daddy  only  pays  me 
the  rest." 

The  boys,  it  must  be  known,  received  every  year  the  two 
smallest  pigs  of  the  old  sow's  litter,  with  the  understand 
ing  that  these  were  to  be  their  separate  property,  on  condi 
tion  of  their  properly  feeding  and  fostering  the  whole  herd. 
This  duty  they  performed  with  great  zeal  and  enthusiasm, 
and  numberless  and  splendid  were  the  castles  which  they 
built  with  the  coming  money;  yet,  alas!  when  the  pigs 
were  sold,  it  always  happened  that  Farmer  Fairthom  found 
some  inconvenient  debt  pressing  him,  and  the  boys'  pig- 
money  was  therefore  taken  as  a  loan,  —  only  as  a  loan,  — 
and  permanently  invested. 

There  were  between  three  and  four  hundred  shocks  to 
husk,  and  the  young  men,  armed  with  husking-pegs  of  hick 
ory,  fastened  by  a  leathern  strap  over  the  two  middle  fin 
gers,  went  bravely  to  work.  Mark  Deane,  who  had  reached 
home  that  afternoon,  wore  the  seventy-five  dollars  in  a  buck 
skin  belt  around  his  waist,  and  anxiously  awaited  the  arrival 
of  Gilbert  Potter,  of  whose  adventure  he  had  already  heard. 
Mark's  presumed  obligations  to  Alfred  Barton  prevented 
him  from  expressing  his  overpowering  contempt  for  that 
gentleman's  conduct,  but  he  was  not  obliged  to  hold  his 
tongue  about  Gilbert's  pluck  and  decision,  and  he  did  not. 

The  latter,  detained  at  the  house  by  Mother  Fairthorn 
and  Sally,  —  both  of  whom  looked  upon  him  as  one  arisen 
from  the  dead,  —  did  not  reach  the  field  until  the  others 
had  selected  their  rows,  overturned  the  shocks,  and  were 
seated  in  a  rustling  line,  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Gilbert !  "  shouted  Mark,  "  come  here  !  I  've  kep'  the 
row  next  to  mine,  for  you !  And  I  want  to  get  a  grip  o' 
your  hand,  my  bold  boy  ! " 


212  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

He  sprang  up,  flinging  an  armful  of  stalks  behind  him, 
and  with  difficulty  restrained  an  impulse  to  clasp  Gilbert  to 
his  broad  breast.  It  was  not  the  custom  of  the  neighbor 
hood  ;  the  noblest  masculine  friendship  would  have  been 
described  by  the  people  in  no  other  terms  than  "  They  are 
very  thick,"  and  men  who  loved  each  other  were  accus 
tomed  to  be  satisfied  with  the  knowledge.  The  strong 
moonlight  revealed  to  Gilbert  Potter  the  honest  heart 
which  looked  out  of  Mark's  blue  eyes,  as  the  latter  held  his 
hand  like  a  vice,  and  said,  — 

"  I  've  heard  all  about  it." 

"  More  than  there  was  occasion  for,  very  likely,"  Gilbert 
replied.  "  I  '11  tell  you  ray  story  some  day,  Mark ;  but  to 
night  we  must  work  and  not  talk." 

"  All  right,  Gilbert.  I  say,  though,  I  've  got  the  money 
you  wanted ;  we  '11  fix  the  matter  after  supper." 

The  rustling  of  the  corn-stalks  recommenced,  and  the 
tented  lines  of  shocks  slowly  fell  as  the  buskers  worked 
their  way  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence  the  ground 
sloped  down  into  a  broad  belt  of  shade,  cast  by  the  woods 
in  the  bottom.  Two  or  three  dogs  which  had  accompanied 
their  masters  coursed  about  the  field,  or  darted  into  the 
woods  in  search  of  an  opossum-trail.  Joe  and  Jake  Fair- 
thorn  would  gladly  have  followed  them,  but  were  afraid  of 
venturing  into  the  mysterious  gloom ;  so  they  amused 
themselves  with  putting  on  the  coats  which  the  men  had 
thrown  aside,  and  gravely  marched  up  and  down  the  line, 
commending  the  rapid  and  threatening  the  tardy  workers. 

Erelong,  the  silence  was  broken  by  many  a  shout  of  ex 
ultation  or  banter,  many  a  merry  sound  of  jest  or  fun,  as 
the  back  of  the  night's  task  was  fairly  broken.  One  husker 
mimicked  the  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  thickets  below ;  an 
other  sang  a  melody  popular  at  the  time,  the  refrain  of 
which  was, — 

"  Be  it  late  or  early,  be  it  late  or  soon, 
It 's  I  will  enjoy  the  sweet  rose  in  June !  " 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  213 

"  Sing  out.  boys  ! "  shouted  Mark,  "  so  the  girls  can  hear 
you  !  It 's  time  they  were  comin'  to  look  after  us." 

"Sing,  yourself!  "  some  one  replied.  "You  can  out-bel 
low  the  whole  raft." 

Without  more  ado,  Mark  opened  his  mouth  and  began 
chanting,  in  a  ponderous  voice,  — 

"  On  yonder  mountain  summit 

My  castle  you  will  find, 
Eenown'd  in  ann-cient  historee, — 
My  name  it  's  Rinardine!  " 

Presently,  from  the  upper  edge  of  the  wood,  several  fem 
inine  voices  were  heard,  singing  another  part  of  the  same 

song:  — 

"  Beware  of  meeting  Rinar, 

All  on  the  mountains  high!  " 

Such  a  shout  of  fun  ran  over  the  field,  that  the  frighted 
owl  ceased  his  hooting  in  the  thicket.  The  moon  stood 
high,  and  turned  the  night-haze  into  diffused  silver.  Though 
the  hollows  were  chill  with  gathering  frost,  the  air  was  still 
mild  and  dry  on  the  hills,  and  the  young  ladies,  in  their 
warm  gowns  of  home-made  flannel,  enjoyed  both  the  splen 
dor  of  the  night  and  the  lively  emulation  of  the  scattered 
laborers. 

"  Turn  to,  and  give  us  a  lift,  girls,"  said  Mark. 

"  Beware  of  meeting  Rinar  !  "  Sally  laughed. 

"  Because  you  know  what  you  promised  him,  Sally,"  he 
retorted.  "  Come,  a  bargain  's  a  bargain  ;  there  's  the  out 
side  row  standin'  —  not  enough  of  us  to  stretch  all  the  way 
acrost  the  field  —  so  let  's  you  and  me  take  that  and  bring 
it  down  square  with  th'  others.  The  rest  may  keep  my 
row  a-goin',  if  they  can." 

Two  or  three  of  the  other  maidens  had  cut  the  support 
ing  stalks  of  the  next  shock,  and  overturned  it  with  much 
laughing.  "  I  can't  husk,  Mark,"  said  Martha  Deane,  '•  but 
I  '11  promise  to  superintend  these,  if  you  will  keep  Sally  to 
her  word." 


214  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

There  was  a  little  running  hither  and  thither,  a  show  of 
fight,  a  mock  scramble,  and  it  ended  by  Sally  tumbling 
over  a  pumpkin,  and  then  being  carried  off  by  Mark  to  the 
end  of  the  outside  row  of  shocks,  some  distance  in  the  rear 
of  the  line  of  work.  Here  he  laid  the  stalks  straight  for 
her,  doubled  his  coat  and  placed  it  on  the  ground  for  a 
seat,  and  then  took  his  place  on  the  other  side  of  the 
shock. 

Sally  husked  a  few  ears  in  silence,  but  presently  found  it 
more  agreeable  to  watch  her  partner,  as  he  bent  to  the 
labor,  ripping  the  covering  from  each  ear  with  one  or  two 
rapid  motions,  snapping  the  cob,  and  flinging  the  ear  over 
his  shoulder  into  the  very  centre  of  the  heap,  without  turn 
ing  his  head.  When  the  shock  was  finished,  there  were 
five  stalks  on  her  side,  and  fifty  on  Mark's. 

He  laughed  at  the  extent  of  her  help,  but,  seeing  how 
bright  and  beautiful  her  face  looked  in  the  moonlight,  how 
round  and  supple  her  form,  contrasted  with  his  own  rough 
proportions,  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  — 

"  Never  mind  the  work,  Sally  —  I  only  wanted  to  have 
you  with  me." 

Sally  was  silent,  but  happy,  and  Mark  proceeded  to  over 
throw  the  next  shock. 

When  they  were  again  seated  face  to  face,  he  no  longer 
bent  so  steadily  over  the  stalks,  but  lifted  his  head  now  and 
then  to  watch  the  gloss  of  the  moon  on  her  black  hair,  and 
the  mellow  gleam  that  seemed  to  slide  along  her  cheek  and 
chin,  playing  with  the  shadows,  as  she  moved. 

"  Sally  ! "  he  said  at  last,  "  you  must  ha'  seen,  over  and 
over  ag'in,  that  I  like  to  be  with  you.  Do  you  care  for  me, 
at  all  ? " 

She  flushed  and  trembled  a  little  as  she  answered, — 
"Yes,  Mark,  I  do." 

He  husked  half  a  dozen  ears  rapidly,  then  looked  up 
again  and  asked,  — 

"  Do  you  care  enough  for  me,  Sally,  to  take  me  for  good 


THE  STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  215 

and  all  ?  I  can't  put  it  into  fine  speech,  but  I  love  you 
dearly  and  honestly ;  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

Sally  bent  down  her  head,  so  choked  with  the  long-de 
layed  joy  that  she  found  it  impossible  to  speak.  Mark  fin 
ished  the  few  remaining  stalks  and  put  them  behind  him  ; 
he  sat  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet. 

"  There  's  my  hand,  Sally ;  will  you  take  it,  and  me  with 
it?" 

Her  hand  slowly  made  its  way  into  his  broad,  hard  palm. 
Once  the  surrender  expressed,  her  confusion  vanished  ;  she 
lifted  her  head  for  his  kiss,  then  leaned  it  on  bis  shoulder 
and  whispered,  — 

"  Oh,  Mark,  I  Ve  loved  you  for  ever  and  ever  so  long  a 
time!" 

"  Why,  Sally,  deary,"  said  he,  "  that  's  my  case,  too ; 
and  I  seemed  to  feel  it  in  my  bones  that  we  was  to  be  a 
pair ;  only,  you  know,  I  had  to  get  a  foothold  first.  I 
could  n't  come  to  you  with  empty  hands  —  though,  faith ! 
there  's  not  much  to  speak  of  in  'em  !  " 

"  Xever  mind  that,  Mark,  —  I  'm  so  glad  you  want  me  ! " 

And  indeed  she  was  ;  why  should  she  not,  therefore,  say 
so? 

"  There  's  no  need  o'  broken  sixpences,  or  true-lovers' 
knots,  I  guess,"  said  Mark,  giving  her  another  kiss.  u  I  'm 
a  plain-spoken  fellow,  and  when  I  say  I  want  you  for  my 
Aufe,  Sally,  I  mean  it.  But  we  mustn't  be  settin'  here, 
with  the  row  unhusked ;  that  '11  never  do.  See  if  I  don't 
make  the  ears  spin !  And  I  guess  you  can  help  me  a  little 
now,  can't  you  ?  " 

With  a  jolly  laugh,  Mark  picked  up  the  corn-cutter  and 
swung  it  above  the  next  shock.  In  another  instant  it  would 
have  fallen,  but  a  loud  shriek  burst  out  from  the  bundled 
stalks,  and  Joe  Fairthorn  crept  forth  on  his  hands  and 
knees. 

The  lovers  stood  petrified.  "  Why,  you  young  devil !  " 
exclaimed  Mark,  while  the  single  word  •'  JOE  i  "  which  came 


216  TPIE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

from  Sally's  lips,  contained  the  concentrated  essence  of  a 
thousand  slaps. 

"  Don't  —  don't !  "  whimpered  Joe.  "  I  '11  not  tell  any 
body,  indeed  I  wont !  " 

"  If  you  do,"  threatened  Mark,  brandishing  the  corn-cut 
ter,  "  it  is  n't  your  legs  I  shall  cut  off,  but  your  head,  even 
with  the  shoulders.  What  were  you  doin'  in  that  shock  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  hear  what  you  and  Sally  were  sayin'  to 
each  other.  Folks  said  you  two  was  a-courtin',"  Joe  an 
swered. 

The  comical  aspect  of  the  matter  suddenly  struck  Mark, 
and  he  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  Mark,  how  can  you  ?  "  said  Sally,  bridling  a  little. 

"  Well,  —  it 's  all  in  the  fam'ly,  after  all.  Joe,  tarnation 
scamp  as  he  is,  is  long-headed  enough  to  keep  his  mouth 
shut,  rather  than  have  people  laugh  at  his  relations  —  eh, 
Joe  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  'd  never  say  a  word,"  Joe  affirmed,  "  and  I 
won't.  You  see  if  I  even  tell  Jake.  But  I  say,  Mark, 
when  you  and  Sally  get  married,  will  you  be  my  uncle  ?  " 

"  It  depends  on  your  behavior,"  Mark  gravely  answered, 
seating  himself  to  husk.  Joe  magnanimously  left  the 
lovers,  and  pitched  over  the  third  shock  ahead,  upon  which 
he  began  to  husk  with  might  and  main,  in  order  to  help 
them  out  with  their  task. 

By  the  time  the  outside  row  was  squared,  the  line  had 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  slope,  where  the  air  was  chill, 
although  the  shadows  of  the  forest  had  shifted  from  the 
field.  Then  there  was  a  race  among  the  huskers  for  the 
fence,  the  girls  promising  that  he  whose  row  was  first 
husked  out,  should  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  be 
called  King  of  the  Corn-field.  The  stalks  rustled,  the  cobs 
snapped,  the  ears  fell  like  a  shower  of  golden  cones,  and 
amid  much  noise  and  merriment,  not  only  the  victor's  row 
but  all  the  others  were  finished,  and  Farmer  Fairthorn's 
field  stood  husked  from  end  to  end. 


THE  STORY  OF  BENNETT.  217 

Gilbert  Potter  had  done  his  share  of  the  work  steadily, 
and  as  silently  as  the  curiosity  of  the  girls,  still  excited  by 
his  recent  adventure,  would  allow.  It  was  enough  for  him 
that  he  caught  a  chance  word,  now  and  then,  from  Martha. 
The  emulation  of  the  race  with  which  the  husking  closed 
favored  them,  and  he  gladly  lost  a  very  fair  chance  of  be 
coming  King  of  the  Corn-field  for  the  opportunity  of  ask 
ing  her  to  assist  him  in  contriving  a  brief  interview,  on  the 
way  to  the  house. 

Where  two  work  together  to  the  same  end,  there  is  no 
doubt  about  the  result,  especially  as,  in  this  case,  the  com 
pany  preferred  returning  through  the  wood  instead  of  cross 
ing  the  open,  high-fenced  fields.  When  they  found  them 
selves  together,  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  others,  Gilbert  lost 
no  time  in  relating  the  particulars  of  his  encounter  with 
Sandy  Flash,  the  discovery  he  had  made,  and  the  myste 
rious  assurance  of  Deb.  Smith. 

Martha  listened  with  the  keenest  interest.  "  It  is  very, 
very  strange,"  she  said,  "  and  the  strangest  of  all  is  that  he 
should  be  that  man,  Fortune.  As  for  his  words,  I  do  not 
find  them  so  singular.  He  has  certainly  the  grandest 
courage,  robber  as  he  is,  and  he  admires  the  same  quality 
in  you ;  no  doubt  you  made  a  favorable  impression  upon 
him  on  the  day  of  the  fox-chase ;  and  so,  although  you 
are  hunting  him  down,  he  will  not  injure  you,  if  he  can 
help  it.  I  find  all  that  very  natural,  in  a  man  of  his" 
nature." 

"  But  Deb.  Smith?"  Gilbert  asked. 

"  That,"  said  Martha,  "  is  rather  a  curious  coincidence, 
but  nothing  more,  I  think.  She  is  said  to  be  a  supersti 
tious  creature,  and  if  you  have  ever  befriended  her,  —  and 
you  may  have  done  so,  Gilbert,  without  your  good  heart 
being  aware  of  it,  —  she  thinks  that  her  spells,  or  charms, 
or  what  not,  will  save  you  from  harm.  No,  I  was  wrong  ; 
it  is  not  so  very  strange,  except  Fortune's  intimacy  with 
Alfred  Barton,  which  everybody  was  talking  about  at  the 
time." 


218  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Gilbert  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  How  the  darkness 
of  his  new  fear  vanished,  in  the  light  of  Martha's  calm, 
sensible  words  !  "  How  wonderfully  you  have  guessed  the 
truth  ! "  he  cried.  "  So  it  is  ;  Deb.  Smith  thinks  she  is  be 
holden  to  me  for  kind  treatment ;  she  blew  upon  my  palm, 
in  a  mysterious  way,  and  said  she  would  stand  by  me  in 
time  of  need  !  But  that  about  Fortune  puzzles  me.  I  can 
see  that  Barton  is  very  shy  of  me  since  he  thinks  I  've 
made  the  discovery." 

"  We  must  ask  Betsy  Lavender's  counsel,  there,"  said 
Martha.  "  It  is  beyond  my  depth." 

The  supper  smoked  upon  the  table  when  they  reached 
the  farm-house.  It  had  been  well  earned,  and  it  was  en 
joyed,  both  in  a  physical  and  a  social  sense,  to  the  very  ex 
tent  of  the  guests'  capacities.  The  King  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  and  Gilbert  Potter  —  forced  into  that  position 
by  Mark  —  at  the  foot.  Sally  Fairthorn  insisted  on  per 
forming  her  duty  as  handmaiden,  although,  as  Betsy  Lav 
ender  again  and  again  declared,  her  room  was  better  than 
her  help.  Sally's  dark  eyes  fairly  danced  and  sparkled ; 
her  full,  soft  lips  shone  with  a  scarlet  bloom ;  she  laughed 
with  a  wild,  nervous  joyousness,  and  yet  rushed  about 
haunted  with  a  fearful  dread  of  suddenly  bursting  into 
tears.  Her  ways  were  so  well  known,  however,  that  a  little 
extra  impulsiveness  excited  no  surprise.  Martha  Deane 
was  the  only  person  who  discovered  what  had  taken  place. 
As  the  girls  were  putting  on  their  hats  and  cloaks  in  the 
bed-room,  Sally  drew  her  into  the  passage,  kissed  her  a 
number  of  times  with  passionate  vehemence,  and  then 
darted  off  without  saying  a  word. 

Gilbert  rode  home  through  the  splendid  moonlight,  in 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  with  a  light  heart,  and 
Mark's  money-belt  buckled  around  his  waist. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  219 


CHAPTER   XX. 

GILBERT    ON   THE   ROAD    TO    CHESTER. 

BEING  now  fully  prepared  to  undertake  his  journey  to 
Chester,  Gilbert  remembered  his  promise  to  Alfred  Barton. 
As  the  subject  had  not  again  been  mentioned  between 
them,  —  probably  owing  to  the  excitement  produced  by 
Sandy  Flash's  visit  to  Kennett  Square,  and  its  conse 
quences,  —  he  felt  bound  to  inform  Barton  of  his  speedy 
departure,  and  to  renew  his  offer  of  sendee. 

He  found  the  latter  in  the  field,  assisting  Giles,  who  was 
hauling  home  the  sheaves  of  corn-fodder  in  a  harvest- 
wagon.  The  first  meeting  of  the  two  men  did  not  seem 
to  be  quite  agreeable  to  either.  Gilbert's  suspicions  had 
been  aroused,  although  he  could  give  them  no  definite 
form,  and  Barton  shrank  from  any  reference  to  what  had 
now  become  a  very  sore  topic. 

"  Giles,"  said  the  latter,  after  a  moment  of  evident  em 
barrassment,  "  I  guess  you  may  drive  home  with  that  load, 
and  pitch  it  off ;  I  '11  wait  for  you  here." 

When  the  rustling  wain  had  reached  a  convenient  dis 
tance,  Gilbert  began,  — 

"I  only  wanted  to  say  that  I'm  going  to  Chester  to 
morrow." 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  Barton  exclaimed,  "  about  that  money  ?  I 
suppose  you  want  all  o'  yours  ?  " 

"It's  as  I  expected.  But  you  said  you  could  borrow 
elsewhere,  and  send  it  by  me." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Barton,  "that  I've  both  borrowed 
and  sent.  I  'm  obliged  to  you,  all  the  same,  Gilbert ;  the 


220  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

will 's  as  good  as  the  deed,  you  know ;  but  I  got  the  money 
from  —  well,  from  a  friend,  who  was  about  going  down  on 
his  own  business,  and  so  that  stone  killed  both  my  birds. 
I  ought  to  ha'  sent  you  word,  by  rights." 

"  Is  your  friend"  Gilbert  asked,  "  a  safe  and  trusty 
man  ?  " 

"  Safe  enough,  I  guess  —  a  little  wild,  at  times,  maybe ; 
but  he  's  not  such  a  fool  as  to  lose  what  he  'd  never  have 
a  chance  of  getting  again." 

«  Then,"  said  Gilbert,  "  it 's  hardly  likely  that  he  's  the 
same  friend  you  took  such  a  fancy  to,  at  the  Hammer-and- 
Trowel,  last  spring  ?  " 

Alfred  Barton  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  a  deep 
color  spread  over  his  face.  His  lower  jaw  slackened  and 
his  eyes  moved  uneasily  from  side  to  side. 

"  Who  —  who  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  stammered. 
.  The  more  evident  his  embarrassment  became,  the  more 
Gilbert  was  confirmed  in  his  suspicion  that  there  was  some 
secret  understanding  between  the  two  men.  The  thing 
seemed  incredible,  but  the  same  point,  he  remembered 
had  occurred  to  Martha  Deane's  mind,  when  she  so  readily 
explained  the  other  circumstances. 

"  Barton,"  he  said,  sternly,  "  you  know  very  well  whom 
I  mean.  What  became  of  your  friend  Fortune  ?  Did  n't 
you  see  him  at  the  tavern,  last  Monday  morning  ?  " 

"  Y-yes  —  oh,  yes  !  I  know  who  he  is  now,  the  damned 
scoundrel !  I  'd  give  a  hundred  dollars  to  see  him  dance 
vpon  nothing !  " 

He  clenched  his  fists,  and  uttered  a  number  of  other 
oaths,  which  need  not  be  repeated.  His  rage  seemed  so 
real  that  Gilbert  was  again  staggered.  Looking  at  the 
heavy,  vulgar  face  before  him,  —  the  small,  restless  eyes, 
the  large  sensuous  mouth,  the  forehead  whose  very  extent, 
in  contradiction  to  ordinary  laws,  expressed  imbecility  rather 
than  intellect,  4t  was  impossible  to  associate  great  cunning 
and  shrewdness  with  such  a  physiognomy.  Every  line,  at 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  221 

that  moment,  expressed  pain  and  exasperation.  But  Gil 
bert  felt  bound  to  go  a  step  further. 

"  Barton,"  he  said,  "  did  n't  you  know  who  Fortune  was, 
on  that  day  ?  " 

"  N-no  —  no  !     On  that  day  —  xo  !     Blast  me  if  I  did ! " 

"  Not  before  you  left  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  '11  admit  that  a  suspicion  of  it  came  to  me  at 
the  very  last  moment  —  too  late  to  be  of  any  use.  But 
come,  damme !  that 's  all  over,  and  what 's  the  good  o' 
talking  ?  You  tried  your  best  to  catch  the  fellow,  too,  but 
he  was  too  much  for  you  !  'T  is  n't  such  an  easy  job,  eh  ?  " 

This  sort  of  swagger  was  Alfred  Barton's  only  refuge, 
when  he  was  driven  into  a  corner.  Though  some  color 
still  lingered  in  his  face,  he  spread  his  shoulders  with  a 
bold,  almost  defiant  air,  and  met  Gilbert's  eye  with  a 
steady  gaze.  The  latter  was  not  prepared  to  carry  his 
examination  further,  although  he  was  still  far  from  being 
satisfied. 

"  Come,  come,  Gilbert !  "  Barton  presently  resumed,  "  I 
mean  no  offence.  You  showed  yourself  to  be  true  blue, 
and  you  led  the  hunt  as  well  as  any  man  could  ha'  done  ; 
but  the  very  thought  o'  the  fellow  makes  me  mad,  and  I  '11 
know  no  peace  till  he  's  strung  up.  If  I  was  your  age, 
now !  A  man  seems  to  lose  his  spirit  as  he  gets  on  in 
years,  and  I  'm  only  sorry  you  were  n't  made  captain  at 
the  start,  instead  o'  me.  You  shall  be,  from  this  time  on ; 
I  won't  take  it  again  !  " 

"  One  thing  I  '11  promise  you,"  said  Gilbert,  with  a  mean 
ing  look,  "  that  I  won't  let  him  walk  into  the  bar-room  of 
the  Unicorn,  without  hindrance." 

"I'll  bet  you  won't!"  Barton  exclaimed.  "All  I'm 
afraid  of  is,  that  he  won't  try  it  again." 

"  We  '11  see  ;  this  highway-robbery  must  have  an  end.  I 
must  now  be  going.  Good-bye  ! " 

"  Good-bye,  Gilbert ;  take  care  o'  yourself ! "  said  Bar 
ton,  in  a  very  good  humor,  now  that  the  uncomfortable  in- 


222  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

terview  was  over.  "  And,  I  say,"  he  added,  "  remember  that 
I  stand  ready  to  do  you  a  good  turn,  whenever  I  can  !  " 

"  Thank  you  !  "  responded  Gilbert,  as  he  turned  Roger's 
head ;  but  he  said  to  himself,  — "  when  all  other  friends 
fail,  I  may  come  to  you,  not  sooner." 

The  next  morning  showed  signs  that  the  Indian  Sum 
mer  had  reached  its  close.  All  night  long  the  wind  had 
moaned  and  lamented  in  the  chimneys,  and  the.  sense  of 
dread  in  the  outer  atmosphere  crept  into  the  house  and 
weighed  upon  the  slumbering  inmates.  There  was  a 
sound  in  the  forest  as  of  sobbing  Dryads,  waiting  for  the 
swift  death  and  the  frosty  tomb.  The  blue  haze  of  dreams 
which  had  overspread  the  land  changed  into  an  ashy,  livid 
mist,  dragging  low,  and  clinging  to  the  features  of  the 
landscape  like  a  shroud  to  the  limbs  of  a  corpse. 

The  time,  indeed,  had  come  for  a  change.  It  was  the 
end  of  November  ;  and  after  a  summer  and  autumn  beau 
tiful  almost  beyond  parallel,  a  sudden  and  severe  winter 
was  generally  anticipated.  In  this  way,  even  the  most 
ignorant  field-hand  recognized  the  eternal  balance  of 
Nature. 

Mary  Potter,  although  the  day  had  arrived  for  which 
she  had  so  long  and  fervently  prayed,  could  not  shake  off 
the  depressing  influence  of  the  weather.  After  breakfast 
when  Gilbert  began  to  make  preparations  for  the  journey, 
she  found  herself  so  agitated  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she 
could  give  him  the  usual  assistance.  The  money,  which 
was  mostly  in  silver  coin,  had  been  sewed  into  tight  rolls, 
and  was  now  to  be  carefully  packed  in  the  saddle-bags ; 
the  priming  of  the  pistols  was  to  be  renewed,  and  the  old, 
shrivelled  covers  of  the  holsters  so  greased,  hammered  out, 
and  padded  that  they  would  keep  the  weapons  dry  in  case 
of  rain.  Although  Gilbert  would  reach  Chester  that  even 
ing,  —  the  distance  being  not  more  than  twenty-four  miles, 
—  the  preparations,  principally  on  account  of  his  errand, 
were  conducted  with  a  grave  and  solemn  sense  of  their 
importance. 


THE  STORY   OF   KENXETT.  223 

When,  finally,  everything  was  in  readiness,  —  the  sad 
dle-bags  so  packed  that  the  precious  rolls  could  not  rub 
or  jingle  ;  the  dinner  of  sliced  bread  and  pork  placed  over 
them,  in  a  folded  napkin ;  the  pistols,  intended  more  for 
show  than  use,  thrust  into  the  antiquated  holsters  ;  and 
all  these  deposited  and  secured  on  Roger's  back,  —  Gilbert 
took  his  mother's  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  Good-bye,  mother !  Don't  worry,  now,  if  I  should  n't 
get  back  until  late  to-morrow  evening  ;  I  can't  tell  exactly 
how  long  the  business  will  take." 

He  had  never  looked  more  strong  and  cheerful.  The 
tears  came  to  Mary  Potter's  eyes,  but  she  held  them  back 
by  a  powerful  effort.  All  she  could  say  —  and  her  voice 
trembled  in  spite  of  herself —  was,  — 

"  Good-bye,  my  boy  !  Remember  that  I  've  worked,  and 
thought,  and  prayed,  for  you  alone,  —  and  that  I  'd  do 
more  —  I  'd  do  all,  if  I  only  could  ! " 

His  look  said  "  I  do  not  forget !  "  He  sat  already  in  the 
saddle,  and  was  straightening  the  folds  of  his  heavy  cloak, 
so  that  it  might  protect  his  knees.  The  wind  had  arisen, 
and  the  damp  mist  was  driving  down  the  glen,  mixed  with 
scattered  drops  of  a  coming  rain-storm.  As  he  rode  slowly 
away,  Mary  Potter  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  dense  gray  of  the 
sky,  darkening  from  moment  to  moment,  listened  to  the 
murmur  of  the  wind  over  the  wooded  hills  opposite,  and 
clasped  her  hands  with  the  appealing  gesture  which  had 
now  become  habitual  to  her. 

"  Two  days  more  !  "  she  sighed,  as  she  entered  the  house, 
—  "  two  days  more  of  fear  and  prayer  !  Lord  forgive  me 
that  I  am  so  weak  of  faith  —  that  I  make  myself  trouble 
where  I  ought  to  be  humble  and  thankful !  " 

Gilbert  rode  slowly,  because  he  feared  the  contents  of  his 
saddle-bags  would  be  disturbed  by  much  jolting.  Proof 
against  wind  and  weather,  he  was  not  troubled  by  the  at 
mospheric  signs,  but  rather  experienced  a  healthy  glow  and 
exhilaration  of  the  blood  as  the  mist  grew  thicker  and  beat 


224  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

upon  his  face  like  the  blown  spray  of  a  waterfall.  By  the 
time  he  had  reached  the  Carson  farm,  the  sky  contracted  to 
a  low,  dark  arch  of  solid  wet,  in  which  there  was  no  positive 
outline  of  cloud,  and  a  dull,  universal  roar,  shorn  of  all 
windy  sharpness,  hummed  over  the  land. 

From  the  hill  behind  the  farm-house,  whence  he  could 
overlook  the  bottom-lands  of  Redley  Creek,  and  easily 
descry,  on  a  clear  day,  the  yellow  front  of  Dr.  Deane's 
house  in  Kennett  Square,  he  now  beheld  a  dim  twilight 
chaos,  wherein  more  and  more  of  the  distance  was  blotted 
out.  Yet  still  some  spell  held  up  the  suspended  rain,  and 
the  drops  that  fell  seemed  to  be  only  the  leakage  of  the 
airy  cisterns  before  they  burst.  The  fields  on  either  hand 
were  deserted.  The  cattle  huddled  behind  the  stacks  or 
crouched  disconsolately  in  fence-corners.  Here  and  there 
a  farmer  made  haste  to  cut  and  split  a  supply  of  wood  for 
his  kitchen-fire,  or  mended  the  rude  roof  on  which  his  pigs 
depended  for  shelter ;  but  all  these  signs  showed  how  soon 
he  intended  to  be  snugly  housed,  to  bide  out  the  storm. 

It  was  a  day  of  no  uncertain  promise.  Gilbert  confessed 
to  himself,  before  he  reached  the  Philadelphia  road,  that 
he  would  rather  have  chosen  another  day  for  the  journey ; 
yet  the  thought  of  returning  was  farthest  from  his  mind. 
Even  when  the  rain,  having  created  its  little  pools  and 
sluices  in  every  hollow  of  the  ground,  took  courage,  and 
multiplied  its  careering  drops,  and  when  the  wet  gusts 
tore  open  his  cloak  and  tugged  at  his  dripping  hat,  he 
cheerily  shook  the  moisture  from  his  cheeks  and  eyelashes, 
patted  Roger's  streaming  neck,  and  whistled  a  bar  or  two 
of  an  old  carol. 

There  were  pleasant  hopes  enough  to  occupy  his  mind, 
without  dwelling  on  these  slight  external  annoyances.  He 
still  tried  to  believe  that  his  mother's  release  would  be 
hastened  by  the  independence  which  lay  folded  in  his 
saddle-bags,  and  the  thud  of  the  wet  leather  against 
Roger's  hide  was  a  sound  to  cheer  away  any  momentary 


THE   STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  225 

foreboding.  Then.  Martha  —  dear,  noble  girl !  She  was 
his ;  it  was  but  to  wait,  and  waiting  must  be  easy  when 
the  end  was  certain.  He  felt,  moreover,  that  in  spite  of 
his  unexplained  disgrace,  he  had  grown  in  the  respect  of 
his  neighbors  ;  that  his  persevering  integrity  was  beginning 
to  bring  its  reward,  and  he  thanked  God  very  gratefully 
that  he  had  been  saved  from  adding  to  his  name  any  stain 
of  hiS  own  making. 

In  an  hour  or  more  the  force  of  the  wind  somewhat 
abated,  but  the  sky  seemed  to  dissolve  into  a  massy  flood. 
The  rain  rushed  down,  not  in  drops,  but  in  sheets,  and  in 
spite  of  his  cloak,  he  was  wet  to  the  skin.  For  half  an 
hour  he  was  obliged  to  halt  in  the  wood  between  Old 
Kennett  and  Chadd's  Ford,  and  here  he  made  the  dis 
covery  that  with  all  his  care  the  holsters  were  nearly 
full  of  water.  Brown  streams  careered  down  the  long, 
meadowy  hollow  on  his  left,  wherein  many  Hessian  sol 
diers  lay  buried.  There  was  money  buried  with  them,  the 
people  believed,  but  no  one  cared  to  dig  among  the  dead 
at  midnight,  and  many  a  wild  tale  of  frighted  treasure- 
seekers  recurred  to  his  mind. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  long  hill  flowed  the  Brandywine, 
now  rolling  swift  and  turbid,  level  with  its  banks.  Roger 
bravely  breasted  the  flood,  and  after  a  little  struggle, 
reached  the  opposite  side.  Then  across  the  battle- 
meadow,  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm,  along  the  foot  of  the 
low  hill,  around  the  brow  of  which  the  entrenchments  of 
the  American  army  made  a  clayey  streak,  until  the  ill- 
fated  field,  sown  with  grape-shot  and  bullets  which  the 
farmers  turned  up  every  spring  with  their  furrows,  lay 
behind  him.  The  story  of  the  day  was  familiar  to  him, 
from  the  narratives  of  scores  of  eye-witnesses,  and  he 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  rode  onward,  wet.  lashed  by  the 
furious  rain,  yet  still  of  good  cheer,  —  <k  Though  the  fight 
was  lost,  the  cause  was  won." 

After  leaving  the  lovely  lateral  valley  which  stretches 
15 


226  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

eastward  for  two  miles,  at  right  angles  to  the  course  of  the 
Brandywine,  he  entered  a  rougher  and  wilder  region,  more 
thickly  wooded  and  deeply  indented  with  abrupt  glens. 
Thus  far  he  had  not  met  with  a  living  soul.  Chester  was 
now  not  more  than  eight  or  ten  miles  distant,  and,  as 
nearly  as  he  could  guess,  it  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  With  the  best  luck,  he  could  barely  reach  his 
destination  by  nightfall,  for  the  rain  showed  no  signs  of 
abating,  and  there  were  still  several  streams  to  be  crossed. 

His  blood  leaped  no  more  so  nimbly  along  his  veins  ;  the 
continued  exposure  had  at  last  chilled  and  benumbed  him. 
Letting  the  reins  fall  upon  Roger's  neck,  he  folded  himself 
closely  in  his  wet  cloak,  and  bore  the  weather  with  a  grim, 
patient  endurance.  The  road  dropped  into  a  rough  glen, 
crossed  a  stony  brook,  and  then  wound  along  the  side  of  a 
thickly  wooded  hill.  On  his  right  the  bank  had  been  cut 
away  like  a  wall;  on  the  left  a  steep  slope  of  tangled 
thicket  descended  to  the  stream. 

One  moment,  Gilbert  knew  that  he  was  riding  along 
this  road,  Roger  pressing  close  to  the  bank  for  shelter 
from  the  wind  and  rain  ;  the  next,  there  was  a  swift  and 
tremendous  grip  on  his  collar,  Roger  slid  from  under  him, 
and  he  was  hurled  backwards,  with  great  force,  upon  the 
ground.  Yet  even  in  the  act  of  falling,  he  seemed  to  be 
conscious  that  a  figure  sprang  down  upon  the  road  from 
the  bank  above. 

It  was  some  seconds  before  the  shock,  which  sent  a 
crash  through  his  brain  and  a  thousand  fiery  sparkles  into 
his  eyes,  passed  away.  Then  a  voice,  keen,  sharp,  and 
determined,  which  it  seemed  that  he  knew,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Damn  the  beast !  I  '11  have  to  shoot  him." 

Lifting  his  head  with  some  difficulty,  for  he  felt  weak 
and  giddy,  and  propping  himself  on  his  arm,  he  saw  Sandy 
Flash  in  the  road,  three  or  four  paces  off,  fronting  Roger, 
who  had  whirled  around,  and  with  levelled  ears  and  fiery 
eyes,  seemed  to  be  meditating  an  attack. 


THE   STORY  OF   KENXETT.  227 

The  robber  wore  a  short  overcoat,  made  entirely  of 
musk-rat  skins,  which  completely  protected  the  arms  in 
his  belt  He  had  a  large  hunting-knife  in  his  left  hand, 
and  appeared  to  be  feeling  with  his  right  for  the  stock  of 
a  pistol.  It  seemed  to  Gilbert  that  nothing  but  the  sin 
gular  force  of  his  eye  held  back  the  horse  from  rushing 
upon  him. 

"  Keep  as  you  are,  young  man ! "  he  cried,  without 
turning  his  head,  "  or  a  bullet  goes  into  your  horse's  brain. 
I  know  the  beast,  and  don't  want  to  see  him  slaughtered. 
If  you  don't,  order  him  to  be  quiet !  " 

Gilbert,  although  he  knew  every  trait  of  the  noble 
animal's  nature  better  than  those  of  many  a  human  ac 
quaintance,  was  both  surprised  and  touched  at  the  instinct 
with  which  he  had  recognized  an  enemy,  and  the  fierce 
courage  with  which  he  stood  on  the  defensive.  In  that 
moment  of  bewilderment,  he  thought  only  of  Roger,  whose 
life  hung  by  a  thread,  which  his  silence  would  instantly 
snap.  He  might  have  seen  —  had  there  been  time  for 
reflection  —  that  nothing  would  have  been  gained,  in  any 
case,  by  the  animal's  death ;  for,  stunned  and  unarmed  as 
he  was,  he  was  no  match  for  the  powerful,  wary  highway 
man. 

Obeying  the  feeling  which  entirely  possessed  him,  he 
cried,  —  "  Roger !  Roger,  old  boy  ! " 

The  horse  neighed  a  shrill,  glad  neigh  of  recognition, 
and  pricked  up  his  ears.  Sandy  Flash  stood  motionless; 
he  had  let  go  of  his  pistol,  and  concealed  the  knife  hi  a 
fold  of  his  coat. 

'•  Quiet,  Roger,  quiet !  "  Gilbert  again  commanded. 

The  animal  understood  the  tone,  if  not  the  words.  He 
seemed  completely  reassured,  and  advanced  a  step  or  two 
nearer.  "With  the  utmost  swiftness  and  dexterity,  com 
bined  with  an  astonishing  gentleness,  —  making  no  gesture 
which  might  excite  Roger's  suspicion, —  Sandy  Flash  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  holsters,  smiled  mockingly,  cut  the  straps 


228  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

of  the  saddle-bags  with  a  single  movement  of  his  keen- 
edged  knife,  tested  the  weight  of  the  bags,  nodded,  grinned, 
and  then,  stepping  aside,  he  allowed  the  horse  to  pass  him. 
But  he  watched  every  motion  of  the  head  and  ears,  as  he 
did  so. 

Roger,  however,  seemed  to  think  only  of  his  master. 
Bending  down  his  head,  he  snorted  warmly  into  Gilbert's 
pale  face,  and  then  swelled  his  sides  with  a  deep  breath 
of  satisfaction.  Tears  of  shame,  grief,  and  rage  swam  in 
Gilbert's  eyes.  "Roger,"  he  said,  "I've  lost  everything 
but  you ! " 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  and  leaned  against  the  bank. 
The  extent  of  his  loss  —  the  hopelessness  of  its  recovery 
— the  impotence  of  his  burning  desire  to  avenge  the  out 
rage —  overwhelmed  him.  The  highwayman  still  stood, 
a  few  paces  off,  watching  him  with  a  grim  curiosity. 

With  a  desperate  effort,  Gilbert  turned  towards  him. 
"  Sandy  Flash,"  he  cried,  "  do  you  know  what  you  are 
doing  ?  " 

"  I  rather  guess  so,"  —  and  the  highwayman  grinned. 
"I've  done  it  before,  but  never  quite  so  neatly  as  this 
time." 

"  I  Ve  heard  it  said,  to  your  credit,"  Gilbert  continued, 
"  that,  though  you  rob  the  rich,  you  sometimes  give  to  the 
poor.  This  time  you  Ve  robbed  a  poor  man." 

"  I  Ve  only  borrowed  a  little  from  one  able  to  spare  a 
good  deal  more  than  I  Ve  got,  —  and  the  grudge  I  owe 
him  is  n't  paid  off  yet." 

"It  is  not  so!"  Gilbert  cried.  "  Every  cent  has  been 
earned  'by  my  own  and  my  mother's  hard  work.  I  was 
taking  it  to  Chester,  to  pay  off  a  debt  upon  the  farm  ;  and 
the  loss  and  the  disappointment  will  wellnigh  break  my 
mother's  heart.  According  to  your  views  of  things,  you 
owe  me  a  grudge,  but  you  are  outside  of  the  law,  and  I 
did  my  duty  as  a  lawful  man  by  trying  to  shoot  you  !  " 

"  And  I,  bein'  outside  o'  the  law,  as  you  say,  have  let  you 


%  THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  229 

off  mighty  easy,  young  man  !  "  exclaimed  Sandy  Flash,  his 
eyes  shining  angrily  and  his  teeth  glittering.  "  I  took  you 
for  a  fellow  o'  pluck,  not  for  one  that  'd  lie,  even  to  the 
robber  they  call  me !  What 's  all  this  pitiful  story  about 
Barton's  money  ?  " 

"  Barton's  money  !  " 

"  Oh  —  ay  !  You  did  n't  agree  to  take  some  o'  his 
money  to  Chester  ? "  The  mocking  expression  on  the 
highwayman's  face  was  perfectly  diabolical.  He  slung 
the  saddle-bags  over  his  shoulders,  and  turned  to  leave. 

Gilbert  was  so  amazed  that  for  a  moment  he  knew  not 
what  to  say.  Sandy  Flash  took  three  strides  up  the  road, 
and  then  sprang  down  into  the  thicket. 

"  It  is  not  Barton's  money  !  "  Gilbert  cried,  with  a  last 
desperate  appeal, — "it  is  mine,  mine  and  my  mother's!" 

A  short,  insulting  laugh  was  the  only  answer. 

"  Sandy  Flash !  "  he  cried  again,  raising  his  voice  almost 
to  a  shout,  as  the  crashing  of  the  robber's  steps  through 
the  brushwood  sounded  farther  and  farther  down  the  gien, 
"  Sandy  Flash !  You  have  plundered  a  widow's  honest 
earnings  to-day,  and  a  curse  goes  with  such  plunder! 
Hark  you !  if  never  before,  you  are  cursed  from  this  hour 
forth  !  I  call  upon  God,  in  my  mother's  name,  to  mark 
you ! " 

There  was  no  sound  in  reply,  except  the  dull,  dreary 
hum  of  the  wind  and  the  steady  lashing  of  the  rain.  The 
growing  darkness  of  the  sky  told  of  approaching  night, 
and  the  wild  glen,  bleak  enough  before,  was  now  a  scene 
of  utter  and  hopeless  desolation  to  Gilbert's  eyes.  He  was 
almost  unmanned,  not  only  by  the  cruel  loss,  but  also  by 
the  stinging  sense  of  outrage  which  it  had  left  behind.  A 
mixed  feeling  of  wretched  despondency  and  shame  filled 
his  heart,  as  he  leaned,  chill,  weary,  and  still  weak  from  the 
shock  of  his  fall,  upon  Roger's  neck. 

The  faithful  animal  turned  his  head  from  time  to  time, 
as  if  to  question  his  master's  unusual  demeanor.  There 


230  THE  STORY  OF   KENNETT. 

was  a  look  of  almost  human  sympathy  in  his  large  eyes ; 
he  was  hungry  and  restless,  yet  would  not  move  until  the 
word  of  command  had  been  given. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Gilbert,  patting  his  cheek,  "  we  've 
both  fared  ill  to-day.  But  you  must  n't  suffer  any  longer 
for  my  sake." 

He  then  mounted  and  rode  onward  through  the  storm. 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  231 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

ROGER    REPAYS    HIS    MASTER. 

A  MILE  or  more  beyond  the  spot  where  Gilbert  Potter 
had  been  waylaid,  there  was  a  lonely  tavern,  called  the 
"  Drovers'  Inn."  Here  he  dismounted,  more  for  his  horse's 
sake  than  his  own,  although  he  was  sore,  weary,  and  sick  of 
heart.  After  having  carefully  groomed  Roger  with  his  own 
hands,  and  commended  him  to  the  special  attentions  of  the 
ostler,  he  entered  the  warm  public  room,  wherein  three  or 
four  storm-bound  drovers  were  gathered  around  the  roaring 
fire  of  hickory  logs. 

The  men  kindly  made  way  for  the  pale,  dripping, 
wretched-looking  stranger ;  and  the  landlord,  with  a  shrewd 
glance  and  a  suggestion  of  "  Something  hot,  I  reckon  ?  " 
began  mixing  a  compound  proper  for  the  occasion.  Laying 
aside  his  wet  cloak,  which  was  sent  to  the  kitchen  to  be 
more  speedily  dried,  Gilbert  presently  sat  in  a  cloud  of  his 
own  steaming  garments,  and  felt  the  warmth  of  the  potent 
liquor  in  his  chilly  blood. 

All  at  once,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  highwayman  had 
not  touched  his  person.  There  was  not  only  some  loose 
silver  in  his  pockets,  but  Mark  Deane's  money-belt  was 
still  around  his  waist.  So  much,  at  least,  was  rescued,  and 
he  began  to  pluck  up  a  little  courage.  Should  he  continue 
his  journey  to  Chester,  explain  the  misfortune  to  the  holder 
of  his  mortgage,  and  give  notice  to  the  County  Sheriff  of 
this  new  act  of  robbery  ?  Then  the  thought  came  into  his 
mind  that  in  that  case  he  might  be  detained  a  day  or  two, 
in  order  to  make  depositions,  or  comply  with  some  unknown 


232  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

legal  form.  In  the  mean  time  the  news  would  spread  over 
the  country,  no  doubt  with  many  exaggerations,  and  might 
possibly  reach  Kennett  —  even  the  ears  of  his  mother. 
That  reflection  decided  his  course.  She  must  first  hear 
the  truth  from  his  mouth ;  he  would  try  to  give  her  cheer 
and  encouragement,  though  he  felt  none  himself;  then, 
calling  his  friends  together,  he  would  hunt  Sandy  Flash 
like  a  wild  beast  until  they  had  tracked  him  to  his  lair. 

"  Unlucky  weather  for  ye,  it  seems  ?  "  remarked  the  curi 
ous  landlord,  who,  seated  in  a  corner  of  the  fireplace,  had 
for  full  ten  minutes  been  watching  Gilbert's  knitted  brows, 
gloomy,  brooding  eyes,  and  compressed  lips. 

"Weather?"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly.  "It  's  not  the 
weather.  Landlord,  will  you  have  a  chance  of  sending  to 
Chester  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going,  if  it  clears  up,"  said  one  of  the  drovers. 

"  Then,  my  friend,"  Gilbert  continued,  "  will  you  take  a 
letter  from  me  to  the  Sheriff?" 

"  If  it 's  nothing  out  of  the  way,"  the  man  replied. 

"  It 's  in  the  proper  course  of  law  —  if  there  is  any  law 
to  protect  us.  Not  a  mile  and  a  half  from  here,  landlord, 
I  have  been  waylaid  and  robbed  on  the  public  road  ! " 

There  was  a  general  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  Gil 
bert's  story,  which  he  had  suddenly  decided  to  relate,  in 
order  that  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  might  be  put 
upon  their  guard,  was  listened  to  with  an  interest  only  less 
than  the  terror  which  it  inspired.  The  landlady  rushed 
into  the  bar-room,  followed  by  the  red-faced  kitchen  wench, 
and  both  interrupted  the  recital  with  cries  of  "  Dear,  dear ! " 
and  "  Lord  save  us !  "  The  landlord,  meanwhile,  had  pre 
pared  another  tumbler  of  hot  and  hot,  and  brought  it  for 
ward,  saying,  — 

"  You  need  it,  the  Lord  knows,  and  it  shall  cost  you 
nothing." 

"  What  I  most  need  now,"  Gilbert  said,  "  is  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  to  write  out  my  account.  Then  I  suppose  you 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  233 

can  get  me  up  a  cold  check,*  for  I  must  start  homewards 
soon." 

"  Not '  a  cold  check '  after  all  that  drenching  and  mis 
handling  !  "  the  landlord  exclaimed.  "  We  '11  have  a  hot 
supper  in  half  an  hour,  and  you  shall  stay,  and  welcome. 
Wife,  bring  down  one  of  Liddy's  pens,  the  schoolmaster 
made  for  her,  and  put  a  little  vinegar  into  th'  ink-bottle  ; 
it 's  most  dried  up  ! " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  necessary  materials  for  a  letter,  all 
of  the  rudest  kind,  were  supplied,  and  the  landlord  and 
drovers  hovered  around  as  Gilbert  began  to  write,  assisting 
him  with  the  most  extraordinary  suggestions. 

"  I  'd  threaten,"  said  a  drover,  "  to  write  straight  to  Gen 
eral  Washington,  unless  they  promise  to  catch  the  scoun 
drel  in  no  time  ! " 

"  And  don't  forget  thp  knife  and  pistol !  "  cried  the  land 
lord. 

"And  say  the  Tory  farmers'  houses  ought  to  be 
searched ! " 

"  And  give  his  marks,  to  a  hair  ! " 

Amid  all  this  confusion.  Gilbert  managed  to  write  a  brief, 
but  sufficiently  circumstantial  account  of  the  robbery,  call 
ing  upon  the  County  authorities  to  do  their  part  in  effect 
ing  the  capture  of  Sandy  Flash.  He  offered  his  services 
and  those  of  the  Kennett  troop,  announcing  that  he  should 
immediately  start  upon  the  hunt,  and  expected  to  be  sec 
onded  by  the  law. 

When  the  letter  had  been  sealed  and  addressed,  the 
drovers  —  some  of  whom  carried  money  with  them,  and 
had  agreed  to  travel  in  company,  for  better  protection  — 
eagerly  took  charge  of  it  promising  to  back  the  delivery 
with  very  energetic  demands  for  assistance. 

Night  had  fallen,  and  the  rain  fell  with  it,  in  renewed 
torrents.  The  dreary,  universal  hum  of  the  storm  rose 
again,  making  all  accidental  sounds  of  life  impertinent,  in 
*  A  local  term,  in  use  at  the  time,  signifying  a  "  lunch." 


234  THE  STORY  OF   KENNETT. 

contrast  with  its  deep,  tremendous  monotone.  The  win 
dows  shivered,  the  walls  sweat  and  streamed,  and  the  wild 
wet  blew  in  under  the  doors,  as  if  besieging  that  refuge  of 
warm,  red  fire-light. 

"  This  beats  the  Lammas  flood  o'  '68,"  said  the  landlord, 
as  he  led  the  way  to  supper.  "  I  was  a  young  man  at  the 
time,  and  remember  it  well.  Half  the  dams  on  Brandy- 
wine  went  that  night." 

After  a  bountiful  meal,  Gilbert  completely  dried  his  gar 
ments  and  prepared  to  set  out  on  his  return,  resisting  the 
kindly  persuasion  of  the  host  and  hostess  that  he  should 
stay  all  night.  A  restless,  feverish  energy  filled  his  frame. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  sleep,  that  to  wait  idly  would  be 
simple  misery,  and  that  only  in  motion  towards  the  set  aim 
of  his  fierce,  excited  desires,  could  he  bear  his  disappoint 
ment  and  shame.  But  the  rain  still  came  down  with  a  vol 
ume  which  threatened  soon  to  exhaust  the  cisterns  of  the 
air,  and  in  that  hope  he  compelled  himself  to  wait  a  little. 

Towards  nine  o'clock  the  great  deluge  seemed  to  slacken. 
The  wind  arose,  and  there  were  signs  of  its  shifting,  ere 
long,  to  the  northwest,  which  would  bring  clear  weather 
in  a  few  hours.  The  night  was  dark,  but  not  pitchy ;  a 
dull  phosphoric  gleam  overspread  the  under  surface  of  the 
sky.  The  woods  were  full  of  noises,  and  every  gully  at 
the  roadside  gave  token,  by  its  stony  rattle,  of  the  rain- 
born  streams. 

With  his  face  towards  home  and  his  back  to  the  storm, 
Gilbert  rode  into  the  night.  The  highway  was  but  a  streak 
of  less  palpable  darkness ;  the  hills  on  either  hand  scarcely 
detached  themselves  from  the  low,  black  ceiling  of  sky  be 
hind  them.  Sometimes  the  light  of  a  farm-house  window 
sparkled  faintly,  like  a  glow-worm,  but  whether  far  or  near, 
he  could  not  tell ;  he  only  knew  how  blest  must  be  the 
owner,  sitting  with  wife  and  children  around  his  secure 
hearthstone,  —  how  wretched  his  own  life,  cast  adrift  in  the 
darkness,  —  wife,  home,  and  future,  things  of  doubt ! 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  235 

He  had  lost  more  than  money ;  and  his  wretchedness 
will  not  seem  unmanly  when  we  remember  the  steady 
strain  and  struggle  of  his  previous  life.  As  there  is  noth 
ing  more  stimulating  to  human  patience,  and  courage,  and 
energy,  than  the  certain  prospect  of  relief  at  the  end,  so 
there  is  nothing  more  depressing  than  to  see  that  relief 
suddenly  snatched  away,  and  the  same  round  of  toil  thrust 
again  under  one's  feet !  This  is  the  fate  of  Tantalus  and 
Sisyphus  in  one. 

Not  alone  the  money ;  a  year,  or  two  years,  of  labor 
would  no  doubt  replace  what  he  had  lost  But  he  had 
seen,  in  imagination,  his  mother's  feverish  anxiety  at  an 
end ;  household  help  procured,  to  lighten  her  over-heavy 
toil ;  the  possibility  of  her  release  from  some  terrible  obli 
gation  brought  nearer,  as  he  hoped  and  trusted,  and  with  it 
the  strongest  barrier  broken  down  which  rose  between  him 
and  Martha  Deane.  All  these  things  which  he  had,  as  it 
were,  held  in  his  hand,  had  been  stolen  from  him,  and  the 
loss  was  bitter  because  it  struck  down  to  the  roots  of  the 
sweetest  and  strongest  fibres  of  his  heart  The  night 
veiled  his  face,  but  if  some  hotter  drops  than  those  of  the 
storm  were  shaken  from  his  cheek,  they  left  no  stain  upon 
his  manhood. 

The  sense  of  outrage,  of  personal  indignity,  which  no 
man  can  appreciate  who  has  not  himself  been  violently 
plundered,  added  its  sting  to  his  miserable  mood.  He 
thirsted  to  avenge  the  wrong ;  Barton's  words  involuntarily 
came  back  to  him,  —  "I  '11  know  no  peace  till  the  villain 
has  been  strung  up  ! "  Barton !  How  came  Sandy  Flash 
to  know  that  Barton  intended  to  send  money  by  him  ? 
Had  not  Barton  himself  declared  that  the  matter  should 
be  kept  secret  ?  "Was  there  some  complicity  between  the 
latter  and  Sandy  Flash  ?  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
seemed  that  the  highwayman  believed  that  he  was  robbing 
Gilbert  of  Barton's  money.  Here  was  an  enigma  which 
he  could  not  solve. 


236  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

All  at  once,  a  hideous  solution  presented  itself.  Was  it 
possible  that  Barton's  money  was  to  be  only  apparently 
stolen  —  in  reality  returned  to  him  privately,  afterwards  ? 
Possibly  the  rest  of  the  plunder  divided  between  the  two 
confederates  ?  Gilbert  was  not  in  a  charitable  mood  ;  the 
human  race  was  much  more  depraved,  in  his  view,  than 
twelve  hours  before ;  and  the  inference  which  he  would 
have  rejected  as  monstrous,  that  very  morning,  now  as 
sumed  a  possible  existence.  One  thing,  at  least,  was  cer 
tain  ;  he  would  exact  an  explanation,  and  if  none  should 
be  furnished,  he  would  make  public  the  evidence  in  his 
hands. 

The  black,  dreary  night  seemed  interminable.  He 
could  only  guess,  here  and  there,  at  a  landmark,  and  was 
forced  to  rely  more  upon  Roger's  instinct  of  the  road  than 
upon  the  guidance  of  his  senses.  Towards  midnight,  as 
he  judged,  by  the  solitary  crow  of  a  cock,  the  rain  almost 
entirely  ceased.  The  wind  began  to  blow,  sharp  and  keen, 
and  the  hard  vault  of  the  sky  to  lift  a  little.  He  fancied 
that  the  hills  on  his  right  had  fallen  away,  and  that  the 
horizon  was  suddenly  depressed  towards  the  north.  Roger's 
feet  began  to  splash  in  constantly  deepening  water,  and 
presently  a  roar,  distinct  from  that  of  the  wind,  filled  the 
air. 

It  was  the  Brandywine.  The  stream  had  overflowed  its 
broad  meadow-bottoms,  and  was  running  high  and  fierce 
beyond  its  main  channel.  The  turbid  waters  made  a  dim, 
dusky  gleam  around  him ;  soon  the  fences  disappeared, 
and  the  flood  reached  to  his  horse's  belly.  But  he  knew 
that  the  ford  could  be  distinguished  by  the  break  in  the 
fringe  of  timber ;  moreover,  that  the  creek-bank  was  a  little 
higher  than  the  meadows  behind  it,  and  so  far,  at  least,  he 
might  venture.  The  ford  was  not  more  than  twenty  yards 
across,  and  he  could  trust  Roger  to  swim  that  distance. 

The  faithful  animal  pressed  bravely  on,  but  Gilbert 
soon  noticed  that  he  seemed  at  fault.  The  swift  water  had 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  237 

forced  him  out  of  the  road,  and  he  stopped,  from  time  to 
time,  as  if  anxious  and  uneasy.  The  timber  could  now  be 
discerned,  only  a  short  distance  in  advance,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  would  gain  the  bank. 

What  was  that  ?  A  strange  rustling,  hissing  sound,  as 
of  cattle  trampling  through  dry  reeds.  —  a  sound  which 
quivered  and  shook,  even  in  the  breath  of  the  hurrying 
wind !  Roger  snorted,  stood  still,  and  trembled  in  every 
limb ;  and  a  sensation  of  awe  and  terror  struck  a  chill 
through  Gilbert's  heart.  The  sound  drew  swiftly  nearer, 
and  became  a  wild,  seething  roar,  filling  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  valley. 

"  Great  God  !  "  cried  Gilbert,  "  the  dam  !  —  the  dam  has 
given  way  ! "  He  turned  Roger's  head,  gave  him  the  rein, 
struck,  spurred,  cheered,  and  shouted.  The  brave  beast 
struggled  through  the  impeding  flood,  but  the  advance  wave 
of  the  coming  inundation  already  touched  his  side.  He 
staggered ;  a  line  of  churning  foam  bore  down  upon  them, 
the  terrible  roar  was  all  around  and  over  them,  and  horse 
and  rider  were  whirled  away. 

What  happened  during  the  first  few  seconds,  Gilbert 
could  never  distinctly  recall.  Now  they  were  whelmed  in 
the  water,  now  riding  its  careering  tide,  torn  through  the 
tops  of  brushwood,  jostled  by  floating  logs  and  timbers  of 
the  dam -breast,  but  always,  as  it  seemed,  remorselessly  held 
in  the  heart  of  the  tumult  and  the  ruin. 

He  saw,  at  last,  that  they  had  fallen  behind  the  furious 
onset  of  the  flood,  but  Roger  was  still  swimming  with  it, 
desperately  throwing  up  his  head  from  time  to  time,  and 
snorting  the  water  from  his  nostrils.  All  his  efforts  to 
gain  a  foothold  failed ;  his  strength  was  nearly  spent,  and 
unless  some  help  should  come  in  a  few  minutes,  it  would 
come  in  vain.  And  in  the  darkness,  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  they  were  borne  along,  how  should  help  come  ? 

All  at  once,  Roger's  course  stopped.  He  became  an  ob 
stacle  to  the  flood,  which  pressed  him  against  some  other 


238  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

obstacle  below,  and  rushed  over  horse  and  rider.  Thrust 
ing  out  his  hand,  Gilbert  felt  the  rough  bark  of  a  tree. 
Leaning  towards  it  and  clasping  the  log  in  his  arms,  he 
drew  himself  from  the  saddle,  while  Roger,  freed  from  his 
burden,  struggled  into  the  current  and  instantly  disap 
peared. 

As  nearly  as  Gilbert  could  ascertain,  several  timbers, 
thrown  over  each  other,  had  lodged,  probably  upon  a  rocky 
islet  in  the  stream,  the  uppermost  one  projecting  slantingly 
out  of  the  flood.  It  required  all  his  strength  to  resist  the 
current  which  sucked,  and  whirled,  and  tugged  at  his  body, 
and  to  climb  high  enough  to  escape  its  force,  without  over 
balancing  his  support.  At  last,  though  still  half  immerged, 
he  found  himself  comparatively  safe  for  a  time,  yet  as  far 
as  ever  from  a  final  rescue. 

He  must  await  the  dawn,  and  an  eternity  of  endurance 
lay  in  those  few  hours.  Meantime,  perhaps,  the  creek 
would  fall,  for  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  there  were  outlines 
of  moving  cloud  in  the  sky.  It  was  the  night  which  made 
his  situation  so  terrible,  by  concealing  the  chances  of 
escape.  At  first,  he  thought  most  of  Eoger.  Was  his 
brave  horse  drowned,  or  had  he  safely  gained  the  bank 
below  ?  Then,  as  the  desperate  moments  went  by,  and  the 
chill  of  exposure  and  the  fatigue  of  exertion  began  to 
creep  over  him,  his  mind  reverted,  with  a  bitter  sweetness, 
a  mixture  of  bliss  and  agony,  to  the  two  beloved  women  to 
whom  his  life  belonged,  —  the  life  which,  alas  !  he  could 
not  now  call  his  own,  to  give. 

He  tried  to  fix  his  thoughts  on  Death,  to  commend  his 
soul  to  Divine  Mercy ;  but  every  prayer  shaped  itself  into 
an  appeal  that  he  might  once  more  see  the  dear  faces  and 
hear  the  dear  voices.  In  the  great  shadow  of  the  fate 
which  hung  over  him,  the  loss  of  his  property  became  as 
dust  in  the  balance,  and  his  recent  despair  smote  him  with 
shame.  He  no  longer  fiercely  protested  against  the  inju 
ries  of  fortune,  but  entreated  pardon  and  pity  for  the  sake 
of  his  love. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  239 

The  clouds  rolled  into  distincter  masses,  and  the  north 
west  wind  still  hunted,  them  across  the  sky,  until  there 
came,  first  a  tiny  rift  for  a  star,  then  a  gap  for  a  whole  con 
stellation,  and  finally  a  broad  burst  of  moonlight.  Gilbert 
now  saw  that  the  timber  to  which  he  clung  was  lodged 
nearly  in  the  centre  of  the  channel,  as  the  water  swept 
with  equal  force  on  either  side  of  him.  Beyond  the  banks 
there  was  a  wooded  hill  on  the  left ;  on  the  right  an  over 
flowed  meadow.  He  was  too  weak  and  benumbed  to  trust 
himself  to  the  flood,  but  he  imagined  that  it  was  beginning 
to  subside,  and  therein  lay  his  only  hope. 

Yet  a  new  danger  now  assailed  him,  from  the  increasing 
cold.  There  was  already  a  sting  of  frost,  a  breath  of  ice, 
in  the  wind.  In  another  hour  the  sky  was  nearly  swept 
bare  of  clouds,  and  he  could  note  the  lapse  of  the  night  by 
the  sinking  of  the  moon.  But  he  was  by  this  time  hardly 
in  a  condition  to  note  anything  more.  He  had  thrown 
himself,  face  downwards,  on  the  top  of  the  log,  his  arms 
mechanically  clasping  it,  while  his  mind  sank  into  a  state 
of  torpid,  passive  suffering,  growing  nearer  to  the  dreamy 
indifference  which  precedes  death.  His  cloak  had  been 
torn  away  in  the  first  rush  of  the  inundation,  and  the  wet 
coat  began  to  stiffen  in  the  wind,  from  the  ice  gathering 
over  it. 

The  moon  was  low  in  the  west,  and  there  was  a  pale 
glimmer  of  the  coming  dawn  in  the  sky,  when  Gilbert  Pot 
ter  suddenly  raised  his  head.  Above  the  noise  of  the 
water  and  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  he  heard  a  familiar 
sound,  —  the  shrill,  sharp  neigh  of  a  horse.  Lifting  him 
self,  with  great  exertion,  to  a  sitting  posture,  he  saw  two 
men,  on  horseback,  in  the  flooded  meadow,  a  little  below 
him.  They  stopped,  seemed  to  consult,  and  presently  drew 
nearer. 

Gilbert  tried  to  shout,  but  the  muscles  of  his  throat  were 
stiff,  and  his  lungs  refused  to  act  The  horse  neighed 
again.  This  time  there  was  no  mistake  ;  it  was  Roger  that 


240  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

be  heard !     Voice  came  to  him,  and  he  cried  aloud,  —  a 
hoarse,  strange,  unnatural  cry. 

The  horsemen  heard  it,  and  rapidly  pushed  up  the  bank, 
until  they  reached  a  point  directly  opposite  to  him.  The 
prospect  of  escape  brought  a  thrill  of  life  to  his  frame ;  he 
looked  around  and  saw  that  the  flood  had  indeed  fallen. 

"  We  have  no  rope,"  he  heard  one  of  the  men  say. 
"  How  shall  we  reach  him  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  time  to  get  one,  now,"  the  other  answered. 
"  My  horse  is  stronger  than  yours.  I  '11  go  into  the  creek 
just  below,  where  it 's  broader  and  not  so  deep,  and  work 
my  way  up  to  him." 

"  But  one  horse  can't  carry  both." 

"  His  will  follow,  be  sure,  when  it  sees  me." 

As  the  last  speaker  moved  away,  Gilbert  saw  a  led  horse 
plunging  through  the  water,  beside  the  other.  It  was  a 
difficult  and  dangerous  undertaking.  The  horseman  and 
the  loose  horse  entered  the  main  stream  below,  where  its 
divided  channel  met  and  broadened,  but  it  was  still  above 
the  saddle-girths,  and  very  swift.  Sometimes  the  animals 
plunged,  losing  their  foothold  ;  nevertheless,  they  gallantly 
breasted  the  current,  and  inch  by  inch  worked  their  way  to 
a  point  about  six  feet  below  Gilbert.  It  seemed  impossi 
ble  to  approach  nearer. 

"  Can  you  swim  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

Gilbert  shook  his  head.  "  Throw  me  the  end  of 
Roger's  bridle ! "  he  then  cried. 

The  man  unbuckled  the  bridle  and  threw  it,  keeping  the 
end  of  the  rein  in  his  hand.  Gilbert  tried  to  grasp  it,  but 
his  hands  were  too  numb.  He  managed,  however,  to  get 
one  arm  and  his  head  through  the  opening,  and  relaxed  his 
hold  on  the  log. 

A  plunge,  and  the  man  had  him  by  the  collar.  He  felt 
himself  lifted  by  a  strong  arm  and  laid  across  Roger's  sad 
dle.  With  his  failing  strength  and  stiff  limbs,  it  was  no 
slight  task  to  get  into  place,  and  the  return,  though  less 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  241 

laborious  to  the  horses,  was  equally  dangerous,  because 
Gilbert  was  scarcely  able  to  support  himself  without 
help. 

"  You  're  safe  now,"  said  the  man,  when  they  reached 
the  bank,  "  but  it 's  a  downright  mercy  of  God  that  you  're 
alive  ! " 

The  other  horseman  joined  them,  and  they  rode  slowly 
across  the  flooded  meadow.  They  had  both  thrown  their 
cloaks  around  Gilbert,  and  carefully  steadied  him  in  the 
saddle,  one  on  each  side.  He  was  too  much  exhausted  to 
ask  how  they  had  found  him,  or  whither  they  were  taking 
him,  —  too  numb  for  curiosity,  almost  for  gratitude. 

"  Here  's  your  saviour  ! "  said  one  of  the  men,  patting 
Roger's  shoulder.  "  It  was  all  along  of  him  that  we  found 
you.  Want  to  know  how  ?  Well  —  about  three  o'clock  it 
was,  maybe  a  little  earlier,  maybe  a  little  later,  my  wife 
woke  me  up.  '  Do  you  hear  that  ? '  she  says.  I  listened 
and  heard  a  horse  in  the  lane  before  the  door,  neighing,  — 
I  can't  tell  you  exactly  how  it  was,  —  like  as  if  he  'd  call 
up  the  house.  'T  was  rather  queer,  I  thought,  so  I  got  up 
and  looked  out  of  window,  and  it  seemed  to  me  he  had  a 
saddle  on.  He  stamped,  and  pawed,  and  then  he  gave  an 
other  yell,  and  stamped  again.  Says  I  to  my  wife,  *  There 's 
something  wrong  here,'  and  I  dressed  and  went  out  When 
he  saw  me,  he  acted  the  strangest  you  ever  saw ;  thinks  I, 
if  ever  an  animal  wanted  to  speak,  that  animal  does.  When 
I  tried  to  catch  him,  he  shot  off,  run  down  the  lane  a  bit, 
and  then  came  back  as  strangely  acting  as  ever.  I  went 
into  the  house  and  woke  up  my  brother,  here,  and  we  sad 
dled  our  horses  and  started.  Away  went  yours  ahead, 
stopping  every  minute  to  look  round  and  see  if  we  followed. 
When  we  came  to  the  water,  I  kind  o'  hesitated,  but 't  was 
no  use ;  the  horse  would  have  us  go  on,  and  on,  till  we 
found  you.  I  never  heard  tell  of  the  like  of  it,  in  my  born 
days ! " 

Gilbert  did  not  speak,  but  two  large  tears  slowly  gath- 
16 


242  THE   STORY   OF  KENXETT. 

ered  in  his  eyes,  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  The  men 
saw  his  emotion,  and  respected  it. 

In  the  light  of  the  cold,  keen  dawn,  they  reached  a  snug 
farm-house,  a  mile  from  the  Brandywine.  The  men  lifted 
Gilbert  from  the  saddle,  and  would  have  carried  him  im 
mediately  into  the  house,  but  he  first  leaned  upon  Roger's 
neck,  took  the  faithful  creature's  head  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  it. 

The  good  housewife  was  already  up,  and  anxiously 
awaiting  the  return  of  her  husband  and  his  brother.  A 
cheery  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth,  and  the  coffee-pot  was 
simmering  beside  it.  When  Gilbert  had  been  partially 
revived  by  the  warmth,  the  men  conducted  him  into  an 
adjoining  bed-room,  undressed  him,  and  rubbed  his  limbs 
with  whiskey.  Then,  a  large  bowl  of  coffee  having  been 
administered,  he  was  placed  in  bed,  covered  with  half  a 
dozen  blankets,  and  the  curtains  were  drawn  over  the  win 
dows.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  plunged  in  a  slumber 
almost  as  profound  as  that  of  the  death  from  which  he  had 
been  so  miraculously  delivered. 

It  was  two  hours  past  noon  when  he  awoke,  and  he  no 
sooner  fully  comprehended  the  situation  and  learned  how 
the  time  had  sped,  than  he  insisted  on  rising,  although  still 
sore,  weak,  and  feverish.  The  good  farmer's  wife  had  kept 
a  huge  portion  of  dinner  hot  before  the  fire,  and  he  knew 
that  without  compelling  a  show  of  appetite,  he  would  not 
be  considered  sufficiently  recovered  to  leave.  He  had  but 
one  desire,  —  to  return  home.  So  recently  plucked  from 
the  jaws  of  Death,  his  life  still  seemed  to  be  an  uncertain 
possession. 

Finally  Roger  was  led  forth,  quiet  and  submissive  as  of 
old,  —  having  forgotten  his  good  deed  as  soon  as  it  had 
been  accomplished,  —  and  Gilbert,  wrapped  in  the  farmer's 
cloak,  retraced  his  way  to  the  main  road.  As  he  looked 
across  the  meadow,  which  told  of  the  inundation  in  its 
sweep  of  bent,  muddy  grass,  and  saw,  between  the  creek- 


THE   STORY   OF  SESXETT.  243 

bank  trees,  the  lodged  timber  to  which  he  had  clung,  the 
recollection  of  the  night  impressed  him  like  a  frightful 
dream.  It  was  a  bright,  sharp,  wintry  day,  —  the  most  vio 
lent  contrast  to  that  which  had  preceded  it.  The  hills  on 
either  side,  whose  outlines  he  could  barely  guess  in  the 
darkness,  now  stood  out  from  the  air  with  a  hard,  painful 
distinctness  ;  the  sky  was  an  arch  of  cold,  steel-tinted  crys 
tal  ;  and  the  north  wind  blew  with  a  shrill,  endless  whistle 
through  the  naked  woods. 

As  he  climbed  the  long  hill  west  of  Chadd's  Ford,  Gil 
bert  noticed  how  the  meadow  on  his  right  had  been  torn 
by  the  flood  gathered  from  the  fields  above.  In  one  place 
a  Hessian  skull  had  been  snapped  from  the  buried  skele 
ton,  and  was  rolled  to  light  among  the  mud  and  pebbles. 
Not  far  off,  something  was  moving  among  the  bushes,  and 
he  involuntarily  drew  rein. 

The  form  stopped,  appeared  to  crouch  down  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  suddenly  rose  and  strode  forth  upon  the  grass. 
It  was  a  woman,  wearing  a  man's  flannel  jacket,  and  carry 
ing  a  long,  pointed  staff  in  her  hand.  As  she  approached 
with  rapid  strides,  he  recognized  Deb.  Smith. 

"  Deborah  !  "  he  cried.  ••  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

She  set  her  pole  to  the  ground  and  vaulted  over  the  high 
picket-fence,  like  an  athlete. 

••  Well,"  she  said,  «  if  I  'd  ha'  been  shy  o'  you,  Mr.  Gil 
bert,  you  would  n't  ha'  seen  me.  I  'm  not  one  of  them  as 
goes  prowlin'  around  among  dead  bodies'  bones  at  mid 
night  ;  what  I  want  I  looks  for  in  the  daytime." 

"  Bones  ?  "  he  asked.  "'  You  're  surely  not  digging  up 
the  Hessians  ?" 

"  Not  exackly  ;  but,  you  see,  the  rain  's  turned  out  a  few, 
and  some  on  'em,  folks  says,  was  buried  with  lots  o'  goold 
platted  up  in  their  pig-tails.  I  know  o'  one  man  that  dug 
up  two  or  three  to  git  their  teeth,  (to  sell  to  the  tooth- 
doctors,  you  know.)  and  when  he  took  hold  o'  the  pig-tail 
to  lift  the  head  by,  the  hair  come  off  in  his  hand,  and  out 


244  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

rattled  ten  good  goolden  guineas.  Now,  if  any  money  's 
washed  out,  there  's  no  harm  in  a  body 's  pickin'  of  it  up, 
as  I  see." 

"  What  luck  have  you  had  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  Nothin'  to  speak  of;  a  few  buttons,  and  a  thing  or  two. 
But  I  say,  Mr.  Gilbert,  what  luck  ha'  you  had  ?  "  She  had 
been  keenly  and  curiously  inspecting  his  face. 

"  Deborah  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  're  a  false  prophet ! 
"  You  told  me  that,  whatever  happened,  I  was  safe  from 
Sandy  Flash." 

«  Eh  ?  " 

There  was  a  shrill  tone  of  surprise  and  curiosity  in  this 
exclamation. 

"You  ought  to  know  Sandy  Flash  better,  before  you 
prophesy  in  his  name,"  Gilbert  repeated,  in  a  stern  voice. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert,  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?  "  She  grasped 
his  leg  with  one  hand,  while  she  twisted  the  other  in  Roger's 
mane,  as  if  to  hold  both  horse  and  rider  until  the  words 
were  explained. 

Thereupon  he  related  to  her  in  a  brief,  fierce  way,  all 
that  had  befallen  him.  Her  face  grew  red  and  her  eyes 
flashed;  she  shook  her  fist  and  swore  under  her  breath, 
from  time  to  time,  while  he  spoke. 

"  You  '11  be  righted,  Mr.  Gilbert ! "  she  then  cried,  "you  '11 
be  righted,  never  fear  !  Leave  it  to  me  !  Have  n't  I  al 
ways  kep'  my  word  to  you  ?  You  're  believin'  I  lied  the 
last  time,  and  no  wonder ;  but  I  '11  prove  the  truth  o'  my 
words  yet  —  may  the  Devil  git  my  soul,  if  I  don't ! " 

"  Don't  think  that  I  blame  you,  Deborah,"  he  said. 
"  You  were  too  sure  of  my  good  luck,  because  you  wished 
me  to  have  it  —  that 's  all." 

"Thank  ye  for  that!  But  it  isn't  enough  for  me. 
When  I  promise  a  thing,  I  have  power  to  keep  my  prom 
ise.  Ax  me  no  more  questions ;  bide  quiet  awhile,  and  if 
the  money  is  n't  back  in  your  pocket  by  New- Year,  I  give 
ye  leave  to  curse  me,  and  kick  me,  and  spit  upon  me  ! " 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  245 

Gilbert  smiled  sadly  and  incredulously,  and  rode  onward. 
He  made  haste  to  reach  home,  for  a  dull  pain  began  to 
throb  in  his  head,  and  chill  shudders  ran  over  his  body. 
He  longed  to  have  the  worst  over  which  yet  awaited  him, 
and  gain  a  little  rest  for  body,  brain,  and  heart 


246  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MARTHA   DEANE    TAKES    A   RESOLUTION. 

MARY  POTTER  had  scarcely  slept  during  the  night  of 
her  son's  absence.  A  painful  unrest,  such  as  she  never 
remembered  to  have  felt  before,  took  complete  possession 
of  her.  Whenever  the  monotony  of  the  drenching  rain 
outside  lulled  her  into  slumber  for  a  few  minutes,  she 
was  sure  to  start  up  in  bed  with  a  vague,  singular  impres 
sion  that  some  one  had  called  her  name.  After  midnight, 
when  the  storm  fell,  the  shrill  wailing  of  the  rising  wind 
seemed  to  forebode  disaster.  Although  she  believed  Gil 
bert  to  be  safely  housed  in  Chester,  the  fact  constantly 
slipped  from  her  memory,  and  she  shuddered  at  every 
change  in  the  wild  weather  as  if  he  were  really  exposed 
to  it. 

The  next  day,  she  counted  the  hours  with  a  feverish 
impatience.  It  seemed  like  tempting  Providence,  but  she 
determined  to  surprise  her  son  with  a  supper  of  unusual 
luxury  for  their  simple  habits,  after  so  important  and  so 
toilsome  a  journey.  Sam  had  killed  a  fowl ;  it  was  picked 
and  dressed,  but  she  had  not  courage  to  put  it  into  the 
pot,  until  the  fortune  of  the  day  had  been  assured. 

Towards  sunset  she  saw,  through  the  back  -  kitchen- 
window,  a  horseman  approaching  from  the  direction  of 
Carson's.  It  seemed  to  be  Roger,  but  could  that  rider, 
in  the  faded  brown  cloak,  be  Gilbert?  His  cloak  was 
blue  ;  he  always  rode  with  his  head  erect,  not  hanging 
like  this  man's,  whose  features  she  could  not  see.  Oppo 
site  the  house,  he  lifted  his  head  —  it  was  Gilbert,  but 
how  old  and  haggard  was  his  face  ! 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  247 

She  met  him  at  the  gate.  His  cheeks  were  suddenly 
flushed,  his  eyes  bright,  and  the  smile  with  which  he  looked 
at  her  seemed  to  be  joyous ;  yet  it  gave  her  a  sense  of  pain 
and  terror. 

«  Oh,  Gilbert !  "  she  cried  ;  "  what  has  happened  ?  " 

He  slid  slowly  and  wearily  off  the  horse,  whose  neck  he 
fondled  a  moment  before  answering  her. 

"Mother,"  he  said  at  last,  uyou  have  to  thank  Eoger 
that  I  am  here  to-night.  I  have  come  back  to  you  from 
the  gates  of  death;  will  you  be  satisfied  with  that  for 
a  while  ?  " 

*•  I  don't  understand  you,  my  boy  !  You  frighten  me  ; 
have  n't  you  been  at  Chester  ?  " 

"  Xo,"  he  answered,  "^there  was  no  use  of  going." 

A  presentiment  of  the  truth  came  to  her,  but  before  she 
could  question  him  further,  he  spoke  again. 

"  Mother,  let  us  go  into  the  house.  I  'm  cold  and  tired ; 
I  want  to  sit  in  your  old  rocking-chair,  where  I  can  rest 
my  head.  Then  I  '11  tell  you  everything  ;  I  wish  I  had  an 
easier  task ! " 

She  noticed  that  his  steps  were  weak  and  slow,  felt  that 
his  hands  were  like  ice,  and  saw  his  blue  lips  and  chatter 
ing  teeth.  She  removed  the  strange  cloak,  placed  her 
chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  seated  him  in  it,  and  then  knelt 
upon  the  floor  to  draw  off  his  stiff,  sodden  top-boots.  He 
was  passive  as  a  child  in  her  hands.  Her  care  for  him 
overcame  all  other  dread,  and  not  until  she  had  placed  his 
feet  upon  a  stool,  in  the  full  warmth  of  the  blaze,  given 
him  a  glass  of  hot  wine  and  lavender,  and  placed  a  pillow 
under  his  head,  did  she  sit  down  at  his  side  to  hear  the 
story. 

"  I  thought  of  this,  last  night,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile  ; 
"  not  that  I  ever  expected  to  see  it.  The  man  was  right ; 
it 's  a  mercy  of  God  that  I  ever  got  out  alive  !  " 

u  Then  be  grateful  to  God.  my  boy  !  "  she  replied,  "  and 
let  me  be  grateful,  too.  It  will  balance  misfortune,  —  for 
that  there  is  misfortune  in  store  for  us.  I  see  plainly." 


248  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Gilbert  then  spoke.  The  narrative  was  long  and  pain 
ful,  and  he  told  it  wearily  and  brokenly,  yet  with  entire 
truth,  disguising  nothing  of  the  evil  that  had  come  upon 
them.  His  mother  sat  beside  him,  pale,  stony,  stifling  the 
sobs  that  rose  in  her  throat,  until  he  reached  the  period 
of  his  marvellous  rescue,  when  she  bent  her  head  upon  his 
arm  and  wept  aloud. 

"  That 's  all,  mother  !  "  he  said  at  the  close  ;  "  it 's  hard 
to  bear,  but  I  'm  more  troubled  on  your  account  than  on 
my  own." 

"  Oh,  I  feared  we  were  over-sure ! "  she  cried.  "  I 
claimed  payment  before  it  was  ready.  The  Lord  chooses 
His  own  time,  and  punishes  them  that  can't  wait  for  His 
ways  to  be  manifest !  It 's  terribly  hard  ;  and  yet,  while 
His  left  hand  smites,  His  right  hand  gives  mercy  !  He 
might  ha'  taken  you,  my  boy,  but  He  makes  a  miracle  to 
save  you  for  me  !  " 

When  she  had  outwept  her  passionate  tumult  of  feeling, 
she  grew  composed  and  serene.  "  Have  n't  I  yet  learned 
to  be  patient,  in  all  these  years  ?  "  she  said.  "  Have  n't 
I  sworn  to  work  out  with  open  eyes  the  work  I  took  in 
blindness  ?  And  after  waiting  twenty-five  years,  am  I  to 
murmur  at  another  year  or  two  ?  No,  Gilbert !  It 's  to 
be  done  ;  I  will  deserve  my  justice  !  Keep  your  courage, 
my  boy ;  be  brave  and  patient,  and  the  sight  of  you  will 
hold  me  from  breaking  down  !  " 

She  arose,  felt  his  hands  and  feet,  set  his  pillow  aright, 
and  then  stooped  and  kissed  him.  His  chills  had  ceased ; 
a  feeling  of  heavy,  helpless  languor  crept  over  him. 

"  Let  Sam  see  to  Roger,  mother !  "  he  murmured.  "  Tell 
him  not  to  spare  the  oats." 

"  I  'd  feed  him  with  my  own  hands,  Gilbert,  if  I  could 
leave  you.  I  'd  put  fine  wheat-bread  into  his  manger,  and 
wrap  him  in  blankets  off  my  own  bed !  To  think  that 
Roger,  —  that  I  did  n't  want  you  to  buy,  —  Lord  forgive 
me,  I  was  advising  your  own  death  !  " 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  249 

It  was  fortunate  for  Mary  Potter  that  she  saw  a  mysteri 
ous  Providence,  which,  to  her  mind,  warned  and  yet  prom 
ised  while  it  chastised,  in  all  that  had  occurred.  This  feeling 
helped  her  to  bear  a  disappointment,  which  would  otherwise 
have  been  very  grievous.  The  idea  of  an  atoning  ordeal, 
which  she  must  endure  in  order  to  be  crowned  with  the 
final  justice,  and  so  behold  her  life  redeemed,  had  become 
rooted  in  her  nature.  To  Gilbert  much  of  this  feeling  was 
inexplicable,  because  he  was  ignorant  of  the  circumstances 
which  had  called  it  into  existence.  But  he  saw  that  his 
mother  was  not  yet  hopeless,  that  she  did  not  seem  to  con 
sider  her  deliverance  as  materially  postponed,  and  a  glim 
mer  of  hope  was  added  to  the  relief  of  having  told  his  tale. 

He  was  still  feverish,  dozing  and  muttering  in  uneasy 
dreams,  as  he  lay  back  in  the  old  rocking-chair,  and  Mary 
Potter,  with  Sam's  help,  got  him  to  bed,  after  administer 
ing  a  potion  which  she  was  accustomed  to  use  in  all  com 
plaints,  from  mumps  to  typhus  fever. 

As  for  Roger,  he  stood  knee-deep  in  clean  litter,  with 
half  a  bushel  of  oats  before  him. 

The  next  morning  Gilbert  did  not  arise,  and  as  he  com 
plained  of  great  soreness  in  every  part  of  his  body,  Sam 
was  dispatched  for  Dr.  Deane. 

It  was  the  first  time  this  gentleman  had  ever  been  sum 
moned  to  the  Potter  farm-house.  Mary  Potter  felt  con 
siderable  trepidation  at  his  arrival,  both  on  account  of  the 
awe  which  his  imposing  presence  inspired,  and  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  son's  love  for  his  daughter,  —  a  fact  which, 
she  rightly  conjectured,  he  did  not  suspect.  As  he  brought 
his  ivory-headed  cane,  his  sleek  drab  broadcloth,  and  his 
herbaceous  fragrance  into  the  kitchen,  she  was  almost 
overpowered. 

"  How  is  thy  son  ailing  ?  "  he  asked.  "  He  always  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  very  healthy  young  man." 

She  described  the  symptoms  with  a  conscientious  mi 
nuteness. 


250  THE   STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  How  was  it  brought  on  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

She  had  not  intended  to  relate  the  whole  story,  but  only 
so  much  of  it  as  was  necessary  for  the  Doctor's  purposes ; 
but  the  commencement  excited  his  curiosity,  and  he  knew 
so  skilfully  how  to  draw  one  word  after  another,  suggesting 
further  explanations  without  directly  asking  them,  that 
Mary  Potter  was  led  on  and  on,  until  she  had  communi 
cated  all  the  particulars  of  her  son's  misfortune. 

"  This  is  a  wonderful  tale  thee  tells  me,"  said  the  Doc 
tor  —  "  wonderful !  Sandy  Flash,  no  doubt,  has  reason  to 
remember  thy  son,  who,  I  'm  told,  faced  him  very  boldly 
on  Second-day  morning.  It  is  really  time  the  country  was 
aroused  ;  we  shall  hardly  be  safe  in  our  own  houses.  And 
all  night  in  the  Brandy  wine  flood  —  I  don't  wonder  thy 
son  is  unwell.  Let  me  go  up  to  him." 

Dr.  Deane's  prescriptions  usually  conformed  to  the  prac 
tice  of  his  day,  —  bleeding  and  big  doses,  —  and  he  would 
undoubtedly  have  applied  both  of  these  in  Gilbert's  case, 
but  for  the  latter's  great  anxiety  to  be  in  the  saddle  and 
on  the  hunt  of  his  enemy.  He  stoutly  refused  to  be  bled, 
and  the  Doctor  had  learned,  from  long  observation,  that 
patients  of  a  certain  class  must  be  humored  rather  than 
coerced.  So  he  administered  a  double  dose  of  Dover's 
Powders,  and  prohibited  the  drinking  of  cold  water.  His 
report  was,  on  the  whole,  reassuring  to  Mary  Potter.  Pro 
vided  his  directions  were  strictly  followed,  he  said,  her 
son  would  be  up  in  two  or  three  days  ;  but  there  might  be 
a  turn  for  the  worse,  as  the  shock  to  the  system  had  been 
very  great,  and  she  ought  to  have  assistance. 

"There's  no  one  I  can  call  upon,"  said  she,  "without 
it's  Betsy  Lavender,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  tell  her  for 
me,  if  you  think  she  can  come." 

"I  '11  oblige  thee,  certainly,"  the  Doctor  answered. 
"  Betsy  is  with  us,  just  now,  and  I  don't  doubt  but  she 
can  spare  a  day  or  two.  She  may  be  a  little  headstrong 
in  her  ways,  but  thee  '11  find  her  a  safe  nurse." 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  251 

It  was  really  not  necessary,  as  the  event  proved.  Rest 
and  warmth  were  what  Gilbert  most  needed.  But  Dr. 
Deane  always  exaggerated  his  patient's  condition  a  little, 
in  order  that  the  credit  of  the  latter's  recovery  might  be 
greater.  The  present  case  was  a  very  welcome  one,  not 
only  because  it  enabled  him  to  recite  a  most  astonishing 
narrative  at  second-hand,  but  also  because  it  suggested  a 
condition  far  more  dangerous  than  that  which  the  patient 
actually  suffered.  He  was  the  first  person  to  bear  the 
news  to  Kennett  Square,  where  it  threw  the  village  into  a 
state  of  great  excitement,  which  rapidly  spread  over  the 
neighborhood. 

He  related  it  at  his  own  tea-table  that  evening,  to  Mar 
tha  and  Miss  Betsy  Lavender.  The  former  could  with 
difficulty  conceal  her  agitation ;  she  turned  red  and  pale, 
until  the  Doctor  finally  remarked,  — 

"  Why,  child,  thee  need  n't  be  so  frightened." 

••  Never  mind  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Betsy,  promptly  coming 
to  the  rescue,  "  it 's  enough  to  frighten  anybody.  It  fairly 
makes  me  shiver  in  my  shoes.  If  Alf.  Barton  had  ha' 
done  his  dooty  like  a  man,  this  would  n't  ha'  happened !  " 

"  I  've  no  doubt  Alfred  did  the  best  he  could,  under  the 
circumstances,"  the  Doctor  sternly  remarked. 

"  Fiddle-de-dee  ! "  was  Miss  Betsy's  contemptuous  an 
swer.  "  He 's  no  more  gizzard  than  a  rabbit.  But  that 's 
neither  here  nor  there ;  Mary  Potter  wants  me  to  go  down 
and  help,  and  go  I  will !  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  thee  might  as  well  go  down  to-morrow 
morning,  though  I  'm  in  hopes  the  young  man  may  be 
better,  if  he  minds  my  directions,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  To-morrow  mornin'  ?  Why  not  next  week  ?  When 
help  's  wanted,  give  it  right  away;  don't  let  the  grass 
grow  under  your  feet,  say  I !  Good  luck  that  I  gev  up 
Mendenhall's  home-comin'  over  t'  the  Lion,  or  I  would  n't 
ha'  been  here ;  so  another  cup  o'  tea,  Martha,  and  I  'm 
off!" 


252  THE  STORY  OF  KENSTETT. 

Martha  left  the  table  at  the  same  time,  and  followed 
Miss  Betsy  up-stairs.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  she 
did  not  tremble,  and  her  voice  came  firm  and  clear. 

"  I  am  going  with  you,"  she  said. 

Miss  Lavender  whirled  around  and  looked  at  her  a 
minute,  without  saying  a  word. 

"  I  see  you  mean  it,  child.  Don't  think  me  hard  or  cruel, 
for  I  know  your  feelin's  as  well  as  if  they  was  mine  ;  but 
all  the  same,  I  've  got  to  look  ahead,  and  back'ards,  and  on 
this  side  and  that,  and  so  lookin',  and  so  judgin',  accordin' 
to  my  light,  which  a'n't  all  tied  up  in  a  napkin,  what  I  've 
got  to  say  is,  and  ag'in  don't  think  me  hard,  it  won't  do  ! " 

"  Betsy,"  Martha  Deane  persisted,  "  a  misfortune  like 
this  brings  my  duty  with  it.  Besides,  he  may  be  in  great 
danger  ;  he  may  have  got  his  death,"  — 

"  Don't  begin  talkin'  that  way,"  Miss  Lavender  inter 
rupted,  "  or  you  '11  put  me  out  o'  patience.  I  '11  say  that 
for  your  father,  he  's  always  mortal  concerned  for  a  bad 
case,  Gilbert  Potter  or  not ;  and  I  can  mostly  tell  the 
heft  of  a  sickness  by  the  way  he  talks  about  it,  —  so  that 's 
settled ;  and  as  to  dooties,  it 's  very  well  and  right,  I  don't 
deny  it,  but  never  mind,  all  the  same,  I  said  before,  the 
whole  thing 's  a  snarl,  and  I  say  it  ag'in,  and  unless  you  've 
got  the  end  o'  the  ravellin's  in  your  hand,  the  harder  you 
pull,  the  wuss  you  '11  make  it !  " 

There  was  good  sense  in  these  words,  and  Martha  Deane 
felt  it.  Her  resolution  began  to  waver,  in  spite  of  the 
tender  instinct  which  told  her  that  Gilbert  Potter  now 
needed  precisely  the  help  and  encouragement  which  she 
alone  could  give. 

"Oh,  Betsy,"  she  murmured,  her  tears  falling  without 
restraint,  "  it 's  hard  for  me  to  seem  so  strange  to  him,  at 
such  a  time  ! " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  spinster,  setting  her  comb  tight 
with  a  fierce  thrust,  "  it 's  hard  every  one  of  us  can't  have 
our  own  ways  in  this  world  !  But  don't  take  on  now,  Mar- 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  253 

tha  dear ;  we  only  have  your  father's  word,  and  not  to  be 
called  a  friend's,  but  I'll  see  how  the  land  lays,  and  to 
morrow  evenin',  or  next  day  at  th'  outside,  you  '11  know 
everything  fair  and  square.  Neither  you  nor  Gilbert  is 
inclined  to  do  things  rash,  and  what  you  both  agree  on, 
after  a  proper  understanding  I  guess  '11  be  pretty  nigh 
right.  There  !  where  's  my  knittin'-basket  ?  " 

Miss  Lavender  trudged  off,  utterly  fearless  of  the  night 
walk  of  two  miles,  down  the  lonely  road.  In  less  than  an 
hour  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  farm-house,  and  was 
received  with  open  arms  by  Mary  Potter.  Gilbert  had 
slept  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  but  was  now  awake,  and 
so  restless,  from  the  desire  to  leave  his  bed,  that  his  mother 
could  with  difficulty  restrain  him. 

"  Set  down  and  rest  yourself,  Mary  ! "  Miss  Betsy  ex 
claimed.  "  I  '11  go  up  and  put  him  to  rights." 

She  took  a  lamp  and  mounted  to  the  bed-room.  Gil 
bert,  drenched  in  perspiration,  and  tossing  uneasily  under 
a  huge  pile  of  blankets,  sprang  up  as  her  gaunt  figure  en 
tered  the  door.  She  placed  the  lamp  on  a  table,  pressed 
him  down  on  the  pillow  by  main  force,  and  covered  him 
up  to  the  chin. 

"  Martha  ?  "  he  whispered,  his  face  full  of  intense,  piteous 
eagerness. 

"  Will  you  promise  to  lay  still  and  sweat,  as  you  're  told 
to  do  ?  " 

«  Yes,  yes  !  " 

"  Now  let  me  feel  your  pulse.  That  '11  do  ;  now  for  your 
tongue  !  Tut,  tut !  the  boy 's  not  so  bad.  I  give  you  my 
word  you  may  get  up  and  dress  yourself  to-morrow  mornin', 
if  you  '11  only  hold  out  to-night.  And  as  for  thorough-stem 
tea,  and  what  not,  I  guess  you  Ve  had  enough  of  'em ; 
but  you  can't  jump  out  of  a  sick-spell  into  downright  peart- 
ness,  at  one  jump  !  " 

"  Martha,  Martha  ! "  Gilbert  urged. 

"  You  're  both  of  a  piece,  I  declare !    There  was  she, 


254  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

this  very  night,  dead  set  on  comin'  down  with  me,  and 
mortal  hard  it  was  to  persuade  her  to  be  reasonable  !  " 

Miss  Lavender  had  not  a  great  deal  to  relate,  but  Gil 
bert  compelled  her  to  make  up  by  repetition  what  she 
lacked  in  quantity.  And  at  every  repetition  the  soreness 
seemed  to  decrease  in  his  body,  and  the  weakness  in  his 
muscles,  and  hope  and  courage  to  increase  in  his  heart. 

"Tell  her,"  he  exclaimed,  "it  was  enough  that  she 
wanted  to  come.  That  alone  has  put  new  life  into  me  !  " 

"  I  see  it  has,"  said  Miss  Lavender,  "  and  now,  maybe, 
you  've  got  life  enough  to  tell  me  all  the  ups  and  downs  o' 
this  affair,  for  I  can't  say  as  I  rightly  understand  it." 

The  conference  was  long  and  important.  Gilbert  re 
lated  every  circumstance  of  his  adventure,  including  the 
mysterious  allusion  to  Alfred  Barton,  which  he  had  con 
cealed  from  his  mother.  He  was  determined,  as  his  first 
course,  to  call  the  volunteers  together  and  organize  a 
thorough  hunt  for  the  highwayman.  Until  that  had  been 
tried,  he  would  postpone  all  further  plans  of  action.  Miss 
Lavender  did  not  say  much,  except  to  encourage  him  in 
this  determination.  She  felt  that  there  was  grave  matter 
for  reflection  in  what  had  happened.  The  threads  of  mys 
tery  seemed  to  increase,  and  she  imagined  it  possible  that 
they  might  all  converge  to  one  unknown  point. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  when  she  descended  to  the  kitchen, 
"  I  don't  see  but  what  the  boy  's  goin'  on  finely.  Go  to 
bed,  you,  and  sleep  quietly ;  I  '11  take  the  settle,  here,  and 
I  promise  you  I  '11  go  up  every  hour  through  the  night,  to 
see  whether  he  's  kicked  his  coverin's  off." 

Which  promise  she  faithfully  kept,  and  in  the  morning 
Gilbert  came  down  to  breakfast,  a  little  haggard,  but  ap 
parently  as  sound  as  ever.  Even  the  Doctor,  when  he 
arrived,  was  slightly  surprised  at  the  rapid  improvement. 

"  A  fine  constitution  for  medicines  to  work  on,"  he  re 
marked.  "  I  would  n't  wish  thee  to  be  sick,  but  when  thee 
is,  it 's  a  pleasure  to  see  how  thy  system  obeys  the  treat 
ment." 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  255 

Martha  Deane.  during  Miss  Lavender's  absence,  had 
again  discussed,  in  her  heart,  her  duty  to  Gilbert.  Her 
conscience  was  hardly  satisfied  with  the  relinquishment 
of  her  first  impulse.  She  felt  that  there  was,  there  must 
be,  something  for  her  to  do  in  this  emergency.  She  knew 
that  he  had  toiled,  and  dared,  and  suffered  for  her  sake, 
while  she  had  done  nothing.  It  was  not  pride,  —  at  least 
not  the  haughty  quality  which  bears  an  obligation  uneasily, 
—  but  rather  the  impulse,  at  once  brave  and  tender,  to 
stand  side  by  side  with  him  in  the  struggle,  and  win  an 
equal  right  to  the  final  blessing. 

In  the  afternoon  Miss  Lavender  returned,  and  her  first 
business  was  to  give  a  faithful  report  of  Gilbert's  condition 
and  the  true  story  of  his  misfortune,  which  she  repeated, 
almost  word  for  word,  as  it  came  from  his  lips.  It  did 
not  differ  materially  from  that  which  Martha  had  already 
heard,  and  the  direction  which  her  thoughts  had  taken,  in 
the  mean  time,  seemed  to  be  confirmed.  The  gentle, 
steady  strength  of  purpose  that  looked  from  her  clear  blue 
eyes,  and  expressed  itself  in  the  firm,  sharp  curve  of  her 
lip,  was  never  more  distinct  than  when  she  said.  — 

"  Xow,  Betsy,  all  is  clear  to  me.  You  were  right  before, 
and  I  am  right  now.  I  must  see  Gilbert  when  he  calls 
the  men  together,  and  after  that  I  shall  know  how  to  act." 

Three  days  afterwards,  there  was  another  assemblage  of 
the  Kennett  Volunteers  at  the  Unicorn  Tavern.  This 
time,  however,  Mark  Deane  was  on  hand,  and  Alfred 
Barton  did  not  make  his  appearance.  That  Gilbert  Pot 
ter  should  take  the  command  was  an  understood  matter. 
The  preliminary  consultation  was  secretly  held,  and  when 
Dougherty,  «the  Irish  ostler,  mixed  himself,  as  by  accident, 
among  the  troop,  Gilbert  sharply  ordered  him  away. 
"Whatever  the  plan  of  the  chase  was,  it  was  not  communi 
cated  to  the  crowd  of  country  idlers ;  and  there  was,  in 
consequence,  some  grumbling  at,  and  a  great  deal  of  re 
spect  for,  the  new  arrangement. 


2-56  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

Miss  Betsy  Lavender  had  managed  to  speak  to  Gilbert 
before  the  others  arrived  ;  therefore,  after  they  had  left,  to 
meet  the  next  day,  equipped  for  a  possible  absence  of  a 
week,  he  crossed  the  road  and  entered  Dr.  Deane's  house. 

This  time  the  two  met,  not  so  much  as  lovers,  but  rather 
as  husband  and  wife  might  meet  after  long  absence  and 
escape  from  imminent  danger.  Martha  Deane  knew  how 
cruel  and  bitter  Gilbert's  fate  must  seem  to  his  own  heart, 
and  she  resolved  that  all  the  cheer  which  lay  in  her  buoy 
ant,  courageous  nature  should  be  given  to  him.  Never 
did  a  woman  more  sweetly  blend  the  tones  of  regret  and 
faith,  sympathy  and  encouragement. 

"  The  time  has  come,  Gilbert,"  she  said  at  last,  "  when 
our  love  for  each  other  must  no  longer  be  kept  a  secret  — 
at  least  from  the  few  who,  under  other  circumstances, 
would  have  a  right  to  know  it.  We  must  still  wait,  though 
no  longer  (remember  that !)  than  we  were  already  agreed 
to  wait ;  but  we  should  betray  ourselves,  sooner  or  later, 
and  then  the  secret,  discovered  by  others,  would  seem  to 
hint  at  a  sense  of  shame.  We  shall  gain  respect  and 
sympathy,  and  perhaps  help,  if  we  reveal  it  ourselves. 
Even  if  you  do  not  take  the  same  view,  Gilbert,  think  of 
this,  that  it  is  my  place  to  stand  beside  you  in  your  hour 
of  difficulty  and  trial ;  that  other  losses,  other  dangers, 
may  come,  and  you  could  not,  you  must  not,  hold  me  apart 
when  my  heart  tells  me  we  should  be  together ! " 

She  laid  her  arms  caressingly  over  his  shoulders,  and 
looked  in  his  face.  A  wonderful  softness  and  tenderness 
touched  his  pale,  worn  countenance.  "  Martha,"  he  said, 
"  remember  that  my  disgrace  will  cover  you,  yet  awhile." 

«  Gilbert ! " 

That  one  word,  proud,  passionate,  reproachful,  yet  for 
giving,  sealed  his  lips. 

"  So  be  it ! "  he  cried.  "  God  knows,  I  think  but  of 
you.  If  I  selfishly  considered  myself,  do  you  think  I 
would  hold  back  my  own  honor  ?  " 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  257 

44  A  poor  honor,"  she  said,  "  that  I  sit  comfortably  at 
home  and  love  you,  while  you  are  face  to  face  with  death  !  " 

Martha  Deane's  resolution  was  inflexibly  taken.  That 
same  evening  she  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  her 
father  was  smoking  a  pipe  before  the  open  stove,  and 
placed  her  chair  opposite  to  his. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  ';  thee  has  never  asked  any  questions 
concerning  Alfred  Barton's  visit." 

The  Doctor  started,  and  looked  at  her  keenly,  before 
replying.  Her  voice  had  its  simple,  natural  tone,  her  man 
ner  was  calm  and  self-possessed  ;  yet  something  in  her  firm, 
erect  posture  and  steady  eye  impressed  him  with  the  idea 
that  she  had  determined  on  a  full  and  final  discussion  of 
the  question. 

"  Xo,  child,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause.  "  I  saw  Alfred, 
and  he  said  thee  was  rather  taken  by  surprise.  He  thought, 
perhaps,  thee  did  n't  rightly  know  thy  own  mind,  and  it 
would  be  better  to  wait  a  little.  That  is  the  chief  reason 
why  I  have  n't  spoken  to  thee." 

"  If  Alfred  Barton  said  that,  he  told  thee  false,"  said  she. 
"  I  knew  my  own  mind,  as  well  then  as  now.  I  said  to  him 
that  nothing  could  ever  make  me  his  wife." 

"  Martha  !  "  the  Doctor  exclaimed,  "  don't  be  hasty !  If 
Alfred  is  a  little  older  "  — 

"  Father  !  "  she  interrupted,  "  never  mention  this  thing 
again !  Thee  can  neither  give  me  away,  nor  sell  me  ; 
though  I  am  a  woman,  I  belong  to  myself.  Thee  knows 
I  'in  not  hasty  in  anything.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I 
rightly  knew  my  own  heart ;  but  when  I  did  know  it  and 
found  that  it  had  chosen  truly,  I  gave  it  freely,  and  it  is 
gone  from  me  forever ! " 

"  Martha,  Martha  !  "  cried  Dr.  Deane,  starting  from  his 
seat,  "  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  something  which  it  is  thy  right  to  know,  and 
therefore  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  thee,  even  at  the 
risk  of  incurring  thy  lasting  displeasure.     It  means  that  I 
17 


258  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

have  followed  the  guidance  of  my  own  heart  and  bestowed 
it  on  a  man  a  thousand  times  better  and  nobler  than  Alfred 
Barton  ever  was,  and,'  if  the  Lord  spares  us  to  each  other, 
I  shall  one  day  be  his  wife  ! " 

The  Doctor  glared  at  his  daughter  in  speechless  amaze 
ment.  But  she  met  his  gaze  steadily,  although  her  face 
grew  a  shade  paler,  and  the  expression  of  the  pain  she 
could  not  entirely  suppress,  with  the  knowledge  of  the 
struggle  before  her,  trembled  a  little  about  the  corners  of 
her  lips. 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Gilbert  Potter." 

Dr.  Deane's  pipe  dropped  from  his  hand  and  smashed 
upon  the  iron  hearth. 

"  Martha  Deane  ! "  he  cried.  "  Does  the  d — •  what  pos 
sesses  thee  ?  Was  n't  it  enough  that  thee  should  drive 
away  the  man  I  had  picked  out  for  thee,  with  a  single  view 
to  thy  own  interest  and  happiness ;  but  must  thee  take  up, 
as  a  wicked  spite  to  thy  father,  with  almost  the  only  man 
in  the  neighborhood  who  brings  thee  nothing  but  poverty 
and  disgrace  ?  It  shall  not  be  —  it  shall  never  be  !  " 

"  It  must  be,  father,"  she  said  gently.  "  God  hath 
joined  our  hearts  and  our  lives,  and  no  man  —  not  even 
thee  —  shall  put  them  asunder.  If  there  were  disgrace, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  —  which  I  now  know  there  is  not, 
—  Gilbert  has  wiped  it  out  by  his  courage,  his  integrity, 
and  his  sufferings.  If  he  is  poor,  I  am  well  to  do." 

"  Thee  forgets,"  the  Doctor  interrupted,  in  a  stern  voice, 
«  the  time  is  n't  up  !  " 

"  I  know  that  unless  thee  gives  thy  consent,  we  must 
wait  three  years ;  but  I  hope,  father,  when  thee  comes  to 
know  Gilbert  better,  thee  will  not  be  so  hard.  I  am  thy 
only  child,  and  my  happiness  cannot  be  indifferent  to  thee. 
I  have  tried  to  obey  thee  in  all  things  "  — 

He  interrupted  her  again.  "Thee  's  adding  another 
cross  to  them  I  bear  for  thee  already !  Am  I  not,  in  a 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  259 

manner,  thy  keeper,  and  responsible  for  thee,  before  the 
world  and  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  ?  But  thee  hardened 
thy  heart  against  the  direction  of  the  Spirit,  and  what  won 
der,  then,  that  it 's  hardened  against  me  ?  " 

"  Xo,  father,"  said  Martha,  rising  and  laying  her  hand 
softly  upon  his  arm,  "  I  obeyed  the  Spirit  in  that  other  mat 
ter,  as  I  obey  my  conscience  in  this.  I  took  my  duty  into 
my  own  hands,  and  considered  it  in  a  humble,  and,  I  hope, 
a  pious  spirit.  I  saw  that  there  were  innocent  needs  of 
nature,  pleasant  enjoyments  of  life,  which  did  not  conflict 
with  sincere  devotion,  and  that  I  was  not  called  upon  to 
renounce  them  because  others  happened  to  see  the  world 
in  a  different  light.  In  this  sense,  thee  is  not  my  keeper  ; 
I  must  render  an  account,  not  to  thee,  but  to  Him  who  gave 
me  my  soul.  Neither  is  thee  the  keeper  of  my  heart  and 
its  affections.  In  the  one  case  and  the  other  my  right  is 
equal,  —  nay,  it  stands  as  far  above  thine  as  Heaven  is 
above  the  earth  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  his  wrath,  Dr.  Deane  could  not  help  ad 
miring  his  daughter.  Foiled  and  exasperated  as  he  was  by 
the  sweet,  serene,  lofty  power  of  her  words,  they  excited 
a  wondering  respect  which  he  found  it  difficult  to  hide. 

"  Ah,  Martha  !  "  he  said,  "  thee  has  a  wonderful  power, 
if  it  were  only  directed  by  the  true  Light !  But  now,  it 
only  makes  the  cross  heavier.  Don't  think  that  I  '11  ever 
consent  to  see  thee  carry  out  thy  strange  and  wicked  fan 
cies  !  Thee  must  learn  to  forget  this  man,  Potter,  and  the 
sooner  thee  begins  the  easier  it  will  be  ! " 

"  Father,"  she  answered,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  I  'm  sorry 
thee  knows  so  little  of  my  nature.  The  wickedness  would 
be  in  forgetting.  It  is  very  painful  to  me  that  we  must 
differ.  "Where  my  duty  was  wholly  owed  to  thee,  I  have 
never  delayed  to  give  it ;  but  here  it  is  owed  to  Gilbert 
Porter,  —  owed,  and  will  be  given." 

"  Enough,  Martha  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  trembling  with 
anger ;  "  don't  mention  his  name  again  ! " 


260  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  I  will  not,  except  when  the  same  duty  requires  it  to  be 
mentioned.  But,  father,  try  to  think  less  harshly  of  the 
name  ;  it  will  one  day  be  mine  ! " 

She  spoke  gently  and  imploringly,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
The  conflict  had  been,  as  she  said,  very  painful ;  but  her 
course  was  plain,  and  she  dared  not  flinch  a  step  at  the 
outset.  The  difficulties  must  be  met  face  to  face,  and  reso 
lutely  assailed,  if  they  were  ever  to  be  overcome. 

Dr.  Deane  strode  up  and  down  the  room  in  silence,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back.  Martha  stood  by  the  fire,  wait 
ing  his  further  speech,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her,  and  at 
the  end  of  half  an  hour,  commanded  shortly  and  sharply, 
without  turning  his  head,  — 

"Go  to  bed!" 

"  Good-night,  father,"  she  said,  in  her  usual  clear  sweet 
voice,  and  quietly  left  the  room. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  261 


CHAPTER 

A    CROSS-EXAMINATION. 

THE  story  of  Gilbert  Potter's  robbery  and  marvellous 
escape  from  death  ran  rapidly  through  the  neighborhood, 
and  coming,  as  it  did,  upon  the  heels  of  his  former  adven 
ture,  created  a  great  excitement  He  became  almost  a 
hero  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  It  was  not  their  habit  to 
allow  any  man  to  quite  assume  so  lofty  a  character  as  that, 
but  they  granted  to  Gilbert  fully  as  much  interest  as,  in 
their  estimation,  any  human  being  ought  properly  to  re 
ceive.  Dr.  Deane  was  eagerly  questioned,  wherever  he 
went ;  and  if  his  garments  could  have  exhaled  the  odors  of 
his  feelings,  his  questioners  wouid  have  smelled  aloes  and 
asafoetida  instead  of  sweet-marjoram  and  bergamot.  But 
—  in  justice  to  him  be  it  said  —  he  told  and  retold  the 
story  very  correctly  ;  the  tide  of  sympathy  ran  so  high  and 
strong,  that  he  did  not  venture  to  stem  it  on  grounds  which 
could  not  be  publicly  explained. 

The  supposed  disgrace  of  Gflbert's  birth  seemed  to  be 
quite  forgotten  for  the  time  ;  and  there  was  no  young  man 
of  spirit  in  the  four  townships  who  was  not  willing  to  serve 
under  his  command.  More  volunteers  offered,  in  fact,  than 
could  be  profitably  employed.  Sandy  Flash  was  not  the 
game  to  be  unearthed  by  a  loud,  numerous,  sweeping  hunt ; 
traps,  pitfalls,  secret  and  unwearied  following  of  his  many 
trails,  were  what  was  needed.  So  much  time  had  elapsed 
that  the  beginning  must  be  a  conjectural  beating  of  the 
bushes,  and  to  this  end  several  small  companies  were  or 
ganized,  and  the  country  between  the  Octorara  and  the 
Delaware  very  effectually  scoured. 


262  .      THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

When  the  various  parties  reunited,  after  several  days, 
neither  of  them  brought  any  positive  intelligence,  but  all 
the  greater  store  of  guesses  and  rumors.  Three  or  four 
suspicious  individuals  had  been  followed  and  made  to  give 
an  account  of  themselves ;  certain  hiding-places,  especially 
the  rocky  lairs  along  the  Brandy  wine  and  the  North  Valley- 
Hill,  were  carefully  examined,  and  some  traces  of  occupa 
tion,  though  none  very  recent,  were  discovered.  Such  evi 
dence  as  there  was  seemed  to  indicate  that  part  of  the 
eastern  branch  of  the  Brandywine,  between  the  forks  of 
the  stream  and  the  great  Chester  Valley,  as  being  the  prob 
able  retreat  of  the  highwayman,  and  a  second  expedition 
was  at  once  organized.  The  Sheriff,  with  a  posse  of  men 
from  the  lower  part  of  the  county,  undertook  to  watch  the 
avenues  of  escape  towards  the  river. 

This  new  attempt  was  not  more  successful,  so  far  as  its 
main  object  was  concerned,  but  it  actually  stumbled  upon 
Sandy  Flash's  trail,  and  only  failed  by  giving  tongue  too 
soon  and  following  too  impetuously.  Gilbert  and  his  men 
had  a  tantalizing  impression  (which  later  intelligence  proved 
to  have  been  correct)  that  the  robber  was  somewhere  near 
them,  —  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  very  wood  they  were 
approaching,  dodging  behind  the  next  barn  as  it  came  into 
view,  or  hidden  under  dead  leaves  in  some  rain-washed  gul- 
ley.  Had  they  but  known,  one  gloomy  afternoon  in  late 
December,  that  they  were  riding  under  the  cedar-tree  in 
whose  close,  cloudy  foliage  he  was  coiled,  just  above  their 
heads !  Had  they  but  guessed  who  the  deaf  old  woman 
was,  with  her  face  muffled  from  the  cold,  and  six  cuts  of 
blue  yarn  in  her  basket !  But  detection  had  not  then  be 
come  a  science,  and  they  were  far  from  suspecting  the  ex 
tent  of  Sandy  Flash's  devices  and  disguises. 

Many  of  the  volunteers  finally  grew  tired  of  the  fruitless 
chase,  and  returned  home ;  others  could  only  spare  a  few 
days  from  their  winter  labors;  but  Gilbert  Potter,  with 
three  or  four  faithful  and  courageous  young  fellows,  —  one 


THE  STORY  OF   KEXNETT.  263 

of  whom  was  Mark  Deane,  —  returned  again  and  again  to 
the  search,  and  not  until  the  end  of  December  did  he  con 
fess  himself  baffled/  By  this  time  all  traces  of  the  high 
wayman  were  again  lost ;  he  seemed  to  have  disappeared 
from  the  country. 

"  I  believe  Pratt 's  right,"  said  Mark,  as  the  two  issued 
from  the  Maryborough  woods,  on  their  return  to  Kennett 
Square.  "  Chester  County  is  too  hot  to  hold  him." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  Gilbert  answered,  with  a  gloomy  face. 
He  was  more  keenly  disappointed  at  the  failure  than  he 
would  then  confess,  even  to  Mark.  The  outrage  committed 
upon  lu'm  was  still  unavenged,  and  thus  his  loss,  to  his 
proud,  sensitive  nature,  carried  a  certain  shame  with  it. 
Moreover,  the  loss  itself  must  speedily  be  replaced.  He 
had  half  flattered  himself  with  the  hope  of  capturing  not 
only  Sandy  Flash,  but  his  plunder ;  it  was  hard  to  forget 
that,  for  a  day  or  two,  he  had  been  independent,  —  hard  to 
stoop  again  to  be  a  borrower  and  a  debtor ! 

'•  What  are  the  count}-  authorities  good  for  ?  "  Mark  ex 
claimed.  "  Between  you  and  me,  the  Sheriff 's  a  reg'lar 
puddin'-head.  I  wish  you  was  in  his  place." 

"  If  Sandy  is  safe  in  Jersey,  or  down  on  the  Eastern 
Shore,  that  would  do  no  good.  It  is  n't  enough  that  he 
leaves  us  alone,  from  this  time  on ;  he  has  a  heavy  back- 
score  to  settle." 

"  Come  to  think  on  it,  Gilbert,"  Mark  continued,  "  is  n't 
it  rather  queer  that  you  and  him  should  be  thrown  together 
in  such  ways  ?  There  was  Barton's  fox-chase  last  spring  ; 
then  your  shootin'  at  other,  at  the  Square ;  and  then  the 
robbery  on  the  road.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  he  picked  you 
out  to  follow  you,  and  yet  I  don't  know  why." 

Gilbert  started.  Mark's  words  reawakened  the  dark, 
incredible  suspicion  which  Martha  Deane  had  removed. 
Again  he  declared  to  himself  that  he  would  not  entertain 
the  thought,  but  he  could  not  reject  the  evidence  that 
there  was  something  more  than  accident  in  all  these  en- 


264  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

counters.  If  any  one  besides  Sandy  Flash  were  responsi 
ble  for  the  last  meeting,  it  must  be  Alfred  Barton.  The 
latter,  therefore,  owed  him  an  explanation,  and  he  would 
demand  it. 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  "  big  hill "  north  of 
the  Fairthorn  farm-house,  whence  they  looked  eastward 
down  the  sloping  corn-field  which  had  been  the  scene  of 
the  husking-frolic,  Mark  turned  to  Gilbert  with  an  honest 
blush  all  over  his  face,  and  said,  — 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  n't  know  it,  Gilbert.  I  'm 
sure  Sally  would  n't  care ;  you  're  almost  like  a  brother  to 
her." 

"  What  ?  "  Gilbert  asked,  yet  with  a  quick  suspicion  of 
the  coming  intelligence. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  know  well  enough,  old  fellow.  I  asked 
her  that  night,  and  it 's  all  right  between  us.  What  do 
you  say  to  it,  now  ?  " 

"  Mark,  I  'm  glad  of  it ;  I  wish  you  joy,  with  all  my 
heart !  "  Gilbert  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  as  he  turned 
and  looked  squarely  into  Mark's  half-bashful  yet  wholly 
happy  face,  he  remembered  Martha's  words,  at  their  last 
interview. 

"  You  are  like  a  brother  to  me,  Mark,"  he  said,  "  and 
you  shall  have  my  secret.  What  would  you  say  if  I  had 
done  the  same  thing  ?  " 

«  No  ?  "  Mark  exclaimed  ;  "  who  ?  " 

"  Guess ! " 

"  Not  —  not  Martha  ?  " 

Gilbert  smiled. 

"  By  the  Lord  !  It 's  the  best  day's  work  you  Ve  ever 
done !  Gi'  me  y'r  hand  ag'in ;  we  '11  stand  by  each  other 
faster  than  ever,  now  !  " 

When  they  stopped  at  Fairthorn's,  the  significant  pres 
sure  of  Gilbert's  hand  brought  a  blush  into  Sally's  cheek ; 
but  when  Mark  met  Martha  with  his  tell-tale  face,  she  an 
swered  with  a  proud  and  tender  smile. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  265 

Gilbert's  first  business,  after  his  return,  was  to  have  a 
consultation  with  Miss  Betsy  Lavender,  who  alone  knew  of 
the  suspicions  attaching  to  Alfred  Barton.  The  spinster 
had,  in  the  mean  time,  made  the  matter  the  subject  of  pro 
found  and  somewhat  painful  cogitation.  She  had  ran 
sacked  her  richly  stored  memory  of  persons  and  events, 
until  her  brain  was  like  a  drawer  of  tumbled  clothes  ;  had 
spent  hours  in  laborious  mental  research,  becoming  so  ab 
sorbed  that  she  sometimes  gave  crooked  answers  when 
spoken  to.  and  was  haunted  with  a  terrible  dread  of  hav 
ing  thought  aloud ;  and  had  questioned  the  oldest  gossips 
right  and  left,  coming  as  near  the  hidden  subject  as  she 
dared.  When  they  met,  she  communicated  the  result  to 
Gilbert  in  this  wise  : 

"  'T  a'n't  agreeable  for  a  body  to  allow  they  're  flum- 
muxed,  but  if  1  a'n't,  this  time,  I  'm  mighty  near  onto  it 
It 's  like  lookin'  for  a  set  o'  buttons  that  '11  match,  in  a  box 
full  o'  tail-ends  o'  things.  This'n  'd  do,  and  thaf  n  'd  do ; 
but  you  can't  put  this'n  and  that'n  together.;  and  here  's 
got  to  be  square  work,  everything  fittin'  tight  and  hangin' 
plumb,  or  it  '11  be  throwed  back  onto  your  hands,  and  all  to 
be  done  over  ag'in.  I  dunno  when  I  've  done  so  much 
head-work  and  to  no  purpose,  follerin'  here  and  guessin' 
there,  and  nosin'  into  everything  that 's  past  and  gone ;  and 
so  my  opinion  is,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  but  never 
mind,  all  the  same,  I  can't  do  no  more  than  give  it,  that 
we  'd  better  drop  what 's  past  and  gone,  and  look  a  little 
more  into  these  present  times  !  " 

"  Well,  Betsy,"  said  Gilbert,  with  a  stern,  determined 
face,  "  this  is  what  I  shall  do.  I  am  satisfied  that  Barton 
is  connected,  in  some  way,  with  Sandy  Flash.  What  it  is, 
or  whether  the  knowledge  will  help  us,  I  can't  guess  ;  but 
I  shall  force  Barton  to  tell  me ! " 

"  To  tell  me.  That  might  do,  as  far  as  it  goes,"  she  re 
marked,  after  a  moment's  reflection.  "  It  won't  be  easy ; 
you  '11  have  to  threaten  as  well  as  coax,  but  I  guess  you 


266  THE   STORY   OF    KENNETT. 

can  git  it  out  of  him  in  the  long  run,  and  maybe  I  can  help 
you  here,  two  bein'  better  than  one,  if  one  is  but  a  sheep's- 
head." 

"  I  don't  see,  Betsy,  that  I  need  to  call  on  you." 

"  This  way,  Gilbert.  It 's  a  strong  p'int  o'  law,  I  've 
heerd  tell,  not  that  I  know  much  o'  law,  Goodness  knows, 
nor  ever  want  to,  but  never  mind,  it 's  a  strong  p'int  when 
there  's  two  witnesses  to  a  thing,  —  one  to  clinch  what  the 
t'other  drives  in  ;  and  you  must  have  a  show  o'  law  to  work 
on  Alf.  Barton,  or  I  'm  much  mistaken  ! " 

Gilbert  reflected  a  moment.  "  It  can  do  no  harm,"  he 
then  said  ;  "  can  you  go  with  me,  now  ?  " 

"  Now  's  the  time  !  If  we  only  git  the  light  of  a  farden- 
candle  out  o'  him,  it  '11  do  me  a  tnortal  heap  o'  good ;  for 
with  all  this  rakin'  and  scrapin'  for  nothin',  I  'm  like  a  heart 
pantin'  after  the  water-brooks,  though  a  mouth  would  be 
more  like  it,  to  my  thinkin',  when  a  body  's  so  awful  dry 
as  that  comes  to  !  " 

The  two  thereupon  took  the  foot-path  down  through  the 
frozen  fields  and  the  dreary  timber  of  the  creek-side,  to 
the  Barton  farm-house.  As  they  approached  the  barn,  they 
saw  Alfred  Barton  sitting  on  a  pile  of  straw  and  watching 
Giles,  who  was  threshing  wheat.  He  seemed  a  little  sur 
prised  at  their  appearance ;  but  as  Gilbert  and  he  had  not 
met  since  their  interview  in  the  corn-field  before  the  for 
mer's  departure  for  Chester,  he  had  no  special  cause  for 
embarrassment. 

"  Come  into  the  house,"  he  said,  leading  the  way. 

"  No,"  Gilbert  answered, "  I  came  here  to  speak  with  you 
privately.  Will  you  walk  down  the  lane  ?  " 

"  No  objection,  of  course,"  said  Barton,  looking  from 
Gilbert  to  Miss  Lavender,  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
uneasiness.  "Good  news,  I  hope;  got  hold  of  Sandy's 
tracks,  at  last  ?  " 

"  One  of  them." 

«  Ah,  you  don't  say  so !     Where  ?  " 


THE   STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  267 

«  Here ! " 

Gilbert  stopped  and  faced  Barton.  They  were  below 
the  barn,  and  out  of  Giles's  hearing. 

"  Barton,"  he  resumed,  "  you  know  what  interest  I  have 
in  the  arrest  of  that  man,  and  you  won't  deny  my  right  to 
demand  of  you  an  account  of  your  dealings  with  him. 
When  did  you  first  make  his  acquaintance  ?  " 

"  I  Ve  told  you  that,  already ;  the  matter  has  been  fully 
talked  over  between  us,"  Barton  answered,  in  a  petulant 
tone. 

u  It  has  not  been  fully  talked  over.  I  require  to  know, 
first  of  all,  precisely  when,  and  under  what  circumstances, 
you  and  Sandy  Flash  came  together.  There  is  more  to 
come,  so  let  us  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"  Damme,  Gilbert,  you  were  there,  and  saw  as  much  as  I 
did.  How  could  I  know  who  the  cursed  black-whiskered 
fellow  was  ?  " 

"  But  you  found  it  out,"  Gilbert  persisted,  "  and  the 
manner  of.  your  finding  it  out  must  be  explained." 

Barton  assumed  a  bold,  insolent  manner.  "  I  don't  see 
as  that  follows."  he  said.  "  It  has  nothing  in  the  world  to 
do  with  his  robbery  of  you ;  and  as  for  Sandy  Flash,  I  wish 
to  the.  Lord  you  'd  get  hold  of  him,  yourself,  instead 
of  trying  to  make  me  accountable  for  his  comings  and 
goings ! " 

u  He  's  tryin'  to  fly  oif  the  handle,"  Miss  Lavender  re 
marked.  "  I  'd  drop  that  part  o'  the  business  a  bit,  if  I 
was  you,  and  come  to  the  t'other  proof." 

"  What  the  devil  have  you  to  do  here  ?  "  asked  Barton. 

"  Miss  Betsy  is  here  because  I  asked  her,"  Gilbert  said. 
ft  Because  all  that  passes  between  us  may  have  to  be  re 
peated  in  a  court  of  justice,  and  two  witnesses  are  better 
than  one ! " 

He  took  advantage  of  the  shock  which  these  words  pro 
duced  upon  Barton,  and  repeated  to  him  the  highwayman's 
declarations,  with  the  inference  they  might  bear  if  not  sat- 


268  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

isfactorily  explained.  "  I  kept  my  promise,"  he  added, 
"  and  said  nothing  to  any  living  soul  of  your  request  that 
I  should  carry  money  for  you  to  Chester.  Sandy  Flash's 
information,  therefore,  must  have  come,  either  directly  or 
indirectly,  from  you." 

Barton  had  listened  with  open  mouth  and  amazed  eyes. 

"  Why,  the  man  is  a  devil ! "  he  cried.  "  I,  neither, 
never  said  a  word  of  the  matter  to  any  living  soul ! " 

"  Did  you  really  send  any  money  ?  "  Gilbert  asked. 

"  That  I  did  !  I  got  it  of  Joel  Ferris,  and  it  happened 
he  was  bound  for  Chester,  the  very  next  day,  on  his  own 
business ;  and  so,  instead  of  turning  it  over  to  me,  he  just 
paid  it  there,  according  to  my  directions.  You  '11  under 
stand,  this  is  between  ourselves  ?  " 

He  darted  a  sharp,  suspicious  glance  at  Miss  Betsy  Lav 
ender,  who  gravely  nodded  her  head. 

"  The  difficulty  is  not  yet  explained,"  said  Gilbert,  "  and 
perhaps  you  '11  now  not  deny  my  right  to  know  something 
more  of  your  first  acquaintance  with  Sandy  Flash  ?  " 

"  Have  it  then  ! "  Barton  exclaimed,  desperately  —  "  and 
much  good  may  it  do  you !  I  thought  his  name  was  For 
tune,  as  much  as  you  did,  till  nine  o'clock  that  night,  when 
he  put  a  pistol  to  my  breast  in  the  woods  !  If  you  think 
I  'm  colloguing  with  him,  why  did  he  rob  me  under  threat 
of  murder,  —  money,  watch,  and  everything  ?  " 

"  Ah-ha  !  "  said  Miss  Lavender,  "  and  so  that 's  the  way 
"your  watch  has  been  gittin'  mended  all  this  while  ?  Main 
spring  broke,  as  I  've  heerd  say ;  well,  I  don't  wonder ! 
Gilbert,  I  guess  this  much  is  true.  Alf.  Barton  'd  never 
live  so  long  without  that  watch,  and  that  half-peck  o'  seals, 
if  he  could  help  it ! " 

"  This,  too,  may  as  well  be  kept  to  ourselves,"  Barton 
suggested.  "  It  is  n't  agreeable  to  a  man  to  have  it  known 
that  he  's  been  so  taken  in  as  I  was,  and  that 's  just  the 
reason  why  I  kept  it  to  myself;  and,  of  course,  I  should  n't 
like  it  to  get  around." 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  269 

Gilbert  could  do  no  less  than  accept  this  part  of  the 
story,  and  it  rendered  his  later  surmises  untenable.  But 
the  solution  which  he  sought  was  as  far  off  as  ever. 

"  Barton,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  will  you  do  your 
best  to  help  me  in  finding  out  how  Sandy  Flash  got  the 
knowledge  ?  " 

"  Only  show  me  a  way !  The  best  would  be  to  catch 
him  and  get  it  from  his  own  mouth." 

He  looked  so  earnest,  so  eager,  and  —  as  far  as  the  traces 
of  cunning  in  his  face  would  permit  —  so  honest,  that  Gil 
bert  yielded  to  a  sudden  impulse,  and  said,  — 

"  I  believe  you,  Barton.  I  've  done  you  wrong  in  my 
thoughts,  —  not  willingly,  for  I  don't  want  to  think  badly 
of  you  or  any  one  else,  —  but  because  circumstances  seemed 
to  drive  me  to  it.  It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had 
told  me  of  your  robbery  at  the  start." 

"  You  're  right  there,  Gilbert !  I  believe  I  was  an  out 
spoken  fellow  enough,  when  I  was  young,  and  all  the  bet 
ter  for  it,  but  the  old  man  's  driven  me  into  a  curst  way  of 
keeping  dark  about  everything,  and  so  I  go  on  heaping  up 
trouble  for  myself." 

"  Trouble  for  myself.  •  Alf.  Barton,"  said  Miss  Lavender, 
"  that  's  the  truest  word  you  've  said  this  many  a  day. 
Murder  will  out,  you  know,  and  so  will  robbery,  and  so 
will  —  other  things.  More  o'  your  doin's  is  known,  not 
that  they  're  agreeabler,  but  on  the  contrary,  quite  the 
reverse,  and  as  full  need  to  be  explained,  though  it  don't 
seem  to  matter  much,  yet  it  may,  who  can  tell  ?  And  now 
look  here,  Gilbert ;  my  crow  is  to  be  picked,  and  you  've 
seen  the  color  of  it,  but  never  mind,  all  the  same,  since 
Martha's  told  the  Doctor,  it  can't  make  much  difference  to 
you.  And  this  is  all  between  ourselves,  you  understand  ?  " 

The  last  words  were  addressed  to  Barton,  with  a  comi 
cal,  unconscious  imitation  of  his  own  manner.  He  guessed 
something  of  what  was  coming,  though  not  the  whole  of  it, 
and  again  became  visibly  uneasy ;  but  he  stammered  out, — 


270  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

.  "  Yes ;  oh,  yes !  of  course." 

Gilbert  could  form  a  tolerably  correct  idea  of  the  shape 
and  size  of  Miss  Lavender's  crow.  He  did  not  feel  sure 
that  this  was  the  proper  time  to  have  it  picked,  or  even  that 
it  should  be  picked  at  all ;  but  he  imagined  that  Miss  Lav 
ender  had  either  consulted  Martha  Deane,  or  that  she  had 
wise  reasons  of  her  own  for  speaking.  He  therefore  re 
mained  silent. 

"  First  and  foremost,"  she  resumed,  "  I  '11  tell  you,  Alf. 
Barton,  what  we  know  o'  your  doin's,  and  then  it 's  for  you 
to  judge  whether  we  '11  know  any  more.  Well,  you  've 
been  tryin'  to  git  Martha  Deane  for  a  wife,  without  wantin' 
her  in  your  heart,  but  rather  the  contrary,  though  it  seems 
queer  enough  when  a  body  comes  to  think  of  it,  but  never 
mind  ;  and  your  father  's  druv  you  to  it ;  and  you  were  of 
a  cold  shiver  for  fear  she  'd  take  you,  and  yet  you  want  to 
let  on  it  a'n't  settled  betwixt  and  between  you  —  oh,  you 
need  n't  chaw  your  lips  and  look  yaller  about  the  jaws,  it 's 
the  Lord's  truth ;  and  now  answer  me  this,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  and  maybe  you  '11  say  what  right  have  I  got  to  ask, 
but  never  mind,  all  the  same,  if  I  have  n't,  Gilbert  Potter 
has,  for  it 's  him  that  Martha  Deane  has  promised  to  take 
for  a  husband ! " 

It  was  a  day  of  surprises  for  Barton.  In  his  astonish 
ment  at  the  last  announcement,  he  took  refuge  from  the 
horror  of  Miss  Lavender's  first  revelations.  One  thing 
was  settled,  —  all  the  fruits  of  his  painful  and  laborious 
plotting  were  scattered  to  the  winds.  Denial  was  of  no 
use,  but  neither  could  an  honest  explanation,  even  if  he 
should  force  himself  to  give  it,  be  of  any  possible  service. 

"  Gilbert,"  he  asked,  "  is  this  true  ?  —  about  you,  I  mean." 

"  Martha  Deane  and  I  are  engaged,  and  were  already  at 
the  time  when  you  addressed  her,"  Gilbert  answered. 

"  Good  heavens !  I  had  n't  the  slightest  suspicion  of  it- 
Well  —  I  don't  begrude  you  your  luck,  and  of  course  I  '11 
draw  back,  and  never  say  another  word,  now  or  ever." 


THE  STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  271 

"  You  would  n't  ha'  been  comfortable  with  Martha  Deane, 
anyhow."  Miss  Lavender  grimly  remarked.  "'T  is  n't 
good  to  hitch  a  colt-horse  and  an  old  spavined  critter  in 
one  team.  But  that 's  neither  here  nor  there  ;  you  ha'  n't 
told  us  why  you  made  up  to  her  for  a  purpose,  and  kep'  on 
pretendin'  she  did  n't  know  her  own  mind." 

"  I  've  promised  Gilbert  that  I  won't  interfere,  and  that 's 
enough,"  said  Barton,  doggedly. 

Miss  Lavender  was  foiled  for  a  moment,  but  she  pres 
ently  returned  to  the  attack.  "I  dunno  as  it's  enough, 
after  what 's  gone  before."  she  said.  "  Could  n't  you  go  a 
step  furder,  and  lend  Gilbert  a  helpin'  hand,  whenever  and 
whatever  ?  " 

"  Betsy  !  "  Gilbert  exclaimed. 

"  Let  me  alone,  lad !  I  don't  speak  in  Gilbert's  name, 
nor  yet  in  Martha's  ;  only  out  o'  my  own  mind.  I  don't 
ask  you  to  do  anything,  but  I  want  to  know  how  it  stands 
with  your  willin'ness." 

"  I  've  offered,  more  than  once,  to  do  him  a  good  turn. 
if  I  could ;  but  I  guess  my  help  would  n't  be  welcome," 
Barton  answered.  The  sting  of  the  suspicion  rankled  in 
his  mind,  and  Gilbert's  evident  aversion  sorely  wounded 
his  vanity. 

•;  Would  n't  be  welcome.  Then  I  '11  only  say  this  ; 
maybe  I  've  got  it  in  my  power,  and  't  is  n't  savin'  much, 
for  the  mouse  gnawed  the  mashes  o'  the  lion's  net.  to  help 
you  to  what  you're  after,  bein'  as  it  isn't  Martha,  and 
can't  be  her  money.  S'pose  I  did  it  o'  my  own  accord, 
leavin'  you  to  feel  beholden  to  me,  or  not,  after  all 's  said 
and  done  ?  " 

But  Alfred  Barton  was  proof  against  even  this  assault. 
He  was  too  dejected  to  enter,  at  once,  into  a  new  plot,  the 
issue  of  which  would  probably  be  as  fruitless  as  the  others. 
He  had  already  accepted  a  sufficiency  of  shame,  for  one 
day.  This  last  confession,  if  made,  would  place  his  char 
acter  in  a  still  grosser  and  meaner  light ;  while,  if  with- 


272  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

held,  the  unexplained  motive  might  be  presented  as  a 
partial  justification  of  his  course.  He  had  been  surprised 
into  damaging  admissions ;  but  here  he  would  take  a  firm 
stand. 

"You're  right  so  far,  Betsy,"  he  said,  "that  I  had  a 
reason  —  a  good  reason,  it  seemed  to  me,  but  I  may  be 
mistaken  —  for  what  I  did.  It  concerns  no  one  under 
Heaven  but  my  own  self;  and  though  I  don't  doubt  your 
willingness  to  do  me  a  good  turn,  it  would  make  no  differ 
ence  —  you  could  n't  help  one  bit.  I  've  given  the  thing 
up,  and  so  let  it  be  !  " 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  the  two  cross- 
examiners  took  their  departure.  As  they  descended  to 
the  creek,  Miss  Lavender  remarked,  as  if  to  herself,  — 

"  No  use  —  it  can't  be  screwed  out  of  him  !  So  there  's 
one  cur'osity  the  less ;  not  that  I  'm  glad  of  it,  for  not 
knowin'  worries  more  than  knowin',  whatsoever  and  who 
soever.  And  I  dunno  as  I  think  any  the  wuss  of  him  for 
shuttin'  his  teeth  so  tight  onto  it." 

Alfred  Barton  waited  until  the  two  had  disappeared  be 
hind  the  timber  in  the  bottom.  Then  he  slowly  followed, 
stealing  across  the  fields  and  around  the  stables,  to  the 
back-door  of  the  Unicorn  bar-room.  It  was  noticed  that, 
although  he  drank  a  good  deal  that  afternoon,  his  ill- 
humor  was  not,  as  usual,  diminished  thereby. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  273 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DEB.    SMITH    TAKES    A   KESOLUTTON. 

IT  was  a  raw,  overcast  evening  in  the  early  part  of  Jan 
uary.  Away  to  the  west  there  was  a  brownish  glimmer  in 
the  dark-gray  sky,  denoting  sunset,  and  from  that  point 
there  came  barely  sufficient  light  to  disclose  the  prominent 
features  of  a  wild,  dreary,  uneven  landscape. 

The  foreground  was  a  rugged  clearing  in  the  forest,  just 
where  the  crest  of  a  high  hill  began  to  slope  rapidly  down 
to  the  Brandywine.  The  dark  meadows,  dotted  with  ir 
regular  lakes  of  ice,  and  long,  dirty  drifts  of  unmelted 
snow,  but  not  the  stream  itself,  could  be  seen.  Across  the 
narrow  valley  rose  a  cape,  or  foreland,  of  the  hills  beyond, 
timbered  nearly  to  the  top,  and  falling,  on  either  side,  into 
deep  lateral  glens,  —  those  warm  nooks  which  the  first 
settlers  loved  to  choose,  both  from  their  snug  aspect  of 
shelter,  and  from  the  cold,  sparkling  springs  of  water  which 
every  one  of  them  held  in  its  lap.  Back  of  the  summits 
of  all  the  hills  stretched  a  rich,  rolling  upland,  cleared  and 
mapped  into  spacious  fields,  but  showing  everywhere  an 
edge  of  dark,  wintry  woods  against  the  darkening  sky. 

In  the  midst  of  this  clearing  stood  a  rough  cabin,  or 
rather  half-cabin,  of  logs ;  for  the  back  of  it  was  formed 
by  a  ledge  of  slaty  rocks,  some  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  height, 
which  here  cropped  out  of  the  hill-side.  The  raw  clay 
with  which  the  crevices  between  the  logs  had  been  stopped, 
had  fallen  out  hi  many  places  ;  the  roof  of  long  strips  of 
peeled  bark  was  shrivelled  by  wind  and  sun,  and  held  in 
its  place  by  stones  and  heavy  branches  of  trees,  and  a 
18 


274  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

square  tower  of  plastered  sticks  in  one  corner  very  imper 
fectly  suggested  a  chimney.  There  was  no  inclosed  patch 
of  vegetable-ground  near,  no  stable,  improvised  of  corn- 
shocks,  for  the  shelter  of  cow  or  pig,  and  the  habitation 
seemed  not  only  to  be  untenanted,  but  to  have  been  for 
saken  years  before. 

Yet  a  thin,  cautious  thread  of  smoke  stole  above  the 
rocks,  and  just  as  the  starless  dusk  began  to  deepen  into 
night,  a  step  was  heard,  slowly  climbing  upward  through 
the  rustling  leaves  and  snapping  sticks  of  the  forest.  A 
woman's  figure,  wearily  scaling  the  hill  under  a  load  which 
almost  concealed  the  upper  part  of  her  body,  for  it  con 
sisted  of  a  huge  wallet,  a  rattling  collection  of  articles  tied 
in  a  blanket,  and  two  or  three  bundles  slung  over  her 
shoulders  with  a  rope.  When  at  last,  panting  from  the 
strain,  she  stood  beside  the  cabin,  she  shook  herself,  and 
the  articles,  with  the  exception  of  the  wallet,  tumbled  to  the 
ground.  The  latter  she  set  down  carefully,  thrust  her  arm 
into  one  of  the  ends  and  drew  forth  a  heavy  jug,  which  she 
raised  to  her  mouth.  The  wind  was  rising,  but  its  voice 
among  the  trees  was  dull  and  muffled;  now  and  then  a 
flake  of  snow  dropped  out  of  the  gloom,  as  if  some  cow 
ardly,  insulting  creature  of  the  air  were  spitting  at  the 
world  under  cover  of  the  night. 

"  It 's  likely  to  be  a  good  night,"  the  woman  muttered, 
"  and  he  '11  be  on  -the  way  by  this  time.  I  must  put  things 
to  rights." 

She  entered  the  cabin  by  a  narrow  door  in  the  southern 
end.  Her  first  care  was  to  rekindle  the  smouldering  fire 
from  a  store  of  boughs  and  dry  brushwood  piled  in  one 
corner.  When  a  little  flame  leaped  up  from  the  ashes,  it 
revealed  an  interior  bare  and  dismal  enough,  yet  very 
cheery  in  contrast  with  the  threatening  weather  outside. 
The  walls  were  naked  logs  and  rock,  the  floor  of  irregular 
flat  stones,  and  no  furniture  remained  except  some  part 
of  a  cupboard  or  dresser,  near  the  chimney.  Two  or  three 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  275 

short  saw-cuts  of  logs  formed  as  many  seats,  and  the  only 
sign  of  a  bed  was  a  mass  of  dry  leaves,  upon  which  a 
blanket  had  been  thrown,  in  a  hollow  under  the  overhang 
ing  base  of  the  rock. 

Untying  the  blanket,  the  woman  drew  forth  three  or 
four  rude  cooking  utensils,  some  dried  beef  and  smoked 
sausages,  and  two  huge  round  loaves  of  bread,  and  ar 
ranged  them  upon  the  one  or  two  remaining  shelves  of 
the  dresser.  Then  she  seated  herself  in  front  of  the  fire, 
staring  into  the  crackling  blaze,  which  she  mechanically 
fed  from  time  to  time,  muttering  brokenly  to  herself  in 
the  manner  of  one  accustomed  to  be  much  alone. 

"  It  was  a  mean  thing,  after  what  I  'd  said,  —  my  word 
used  to  be  wuth  somethin',  but  times  seems  to  ha'  changed. 
If  they  have,  why  should  n't  I  change  with  'em.  as  well 's 
anybody  else  ?  Well,  why  need  it  matter  ?  I  Ye  got  a 
bad  name.  .  .  .  No,  that  '11  never  do !  Stick  to  what 
you  're  about,  or  you  '11  be  wuthlesser,  even,  than  they  says 
you  are  ! " 

She  shook  her  hard  fist,  and  took  another  pull  at  the 

Jug- 

" It 's  well  I  laid  in  a  good  lot  o'  that''  she  said.  «  No 
better  company  for  a  lonesome  night,  and  it  '11  stop  his 
cussin',  I  reckon,  anyhow.  Eh  ?  What 's  that  ?  " 

From  the  wood  came  a  short,  quick  yelp,  as  from  some 
stray  dog.  She  rose,  slipped  out  the  door,  and  peered  into 
the  darkness,  which  was  full  of  gathering  snow.  After 
listening  a  moment,  she  gave  a  low  whistle.  It  was  not 
answered,  but  a  stealthy  step  presently  approached,  and  a 
form,  dividing  itself  from  the  gloom,  stood  at  her  side. 

"  All  right,  Deb.  ?  " 

"  Right  as  I  can  make  it.  I  've  got  meat  and  drink,  and 
I  come  straight  from  the  Turk's  Head,  and  Jim  says  the 
Sheriff 's  gone  back  to  Chester,  and  there  's  been  nobody 
out  these  three  days.  Come  in  and  take  bite  and  sup,  and 
then  tell  me  everything." 


276  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

They  entered  the  cabin.  The  door  was  carefully  barred, 
and  then  Sandy  Flash,  throwing  off  a  heavy  overcoat,  such 
as  the  drovers  were  accustomed  to  wear,  sat  down  by  the 
fire.  His  face  was  redder  than  its  wont,  from  cold  and 
exposure,  and  all  its  keen,  fierce  lines  were  sharp  and 
hard.  As  he  warmed  his  feet  and  hands  at  the  blaze,  and 
watched  Deb.  Smith  while  she  set  the  meat  upon  the  coals, 
and  cut  the  bread  with  a  heavy  hunting-knife,  the  wary, 
defiant  look  of  a  hunted  animal  gradually  relaxed,  and  he 
said,  — 

«  Faith,  Deb.,  this  is  better  than  hidin'  in  the  frost.  I 
believe  I  'd  ha'  froze  last  night,  if  I  had  n't  got  down  beside 
an  ox  for  a  couple  o'  hours.  It 's  a  dog's  life  they  've  led 
me,  and  I  've  had  just  about  enough  of  it." 

"  Then  why  not  give  it  up,  Sandy,  for  good  and  all  ? 
I  '11  go  out  with  you  to  the  Backwoods,  after  —  after  things 
is  settled." 

"  And  let  'em  brag  they  frightened  me  away  !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  with  an  oath.  "  Not  by  a  long  shot,  Deb.  I  owe 
'em  a  score  for  this  last  chase  —  I  '11  make  the  rich  men 
o'  Chester  County  shake  in  their  shoes,  and  the  officers  o' 
the  law,  and  the  Volunteers,  damme !  before  I  Ve  done 
with  'em.  When  I  go  away  for  good,  I  '11  leave  somethin' 
behind  me  for  them  to  remember  me  by  !  " 

"  Well,  never  mind  ;  eat  a  bit  —  the  meat 's  ready,  and 
see  here,  Sandy  !  I  carried  this  all  the  way." 

He  seized  the  jug  and  took  a  long  draught.  "  You  're 
a  good  'un,  Deb.,"  he  said.  "  A  man  is  n't  half  a  man 
when  his  belly  's  cold  and  empty." 

He  fell  to,  and  ate  long  and  ravenously.  Warmed  at 
last,  both  by  fire  and  fare,  and  still  more  by  his  frequent 
potations,  he  commenced  the  story  of  his  disguises  and 
escapes,  laughing  at  times  with  boisterous  self-admiration, 
swearing  brutally  and  bitterly  at  others,  over  the  relentless 
energy  with  which  he  had  been  pursued.  Deb.  Smith 
listened  with  eager  interest,  slapping  him  upon  the  back 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  277 

with  a  force  of  approval  which  would  have  felled  an  ordi 
nary  man,  but  which  Sandy  Flash  cheerfully  accepted  as 
a  caress. 

"You  see,"  he  said  at  the  close,  "after  I  sneaked  be 
tween  Potter's  troop  and  the  Sheriff's,  and  got  clown 
into  the  lower  corner  o'  the  county.  I  managed  to  jump 
aboard  a  grain-sloop  bound  for  Newport,  but  they  were 
froze  in  at  the  mouth  o'  Christeen ;  so  I  went  ashore, 
dodged  around  Wilmington,  (where  I  'm  rather  too  well 
known.)  and  come  up  Whitely  Creek  as  a  drover  from 
Mar'land.  But  from  Grove  up  to  here,  I  've  had  to  look 
out  mighty  sharp,  takin'  nigh  onto  two  days  for  what  I 
could  go  straight  through  in  half  a  day." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  're  safe  here,  Sandy,"  she  said ; 
"  they  '11  never  think  o'  lookin'  for  you  twice't  in  the  same 
place.  Why  did  n't  you  send  word  for  me  before  ?  You  Ve 
kep'  me  a  mortal  long  time  a-waitin',  and  down  on  the 
Woodrow  farm  would  ha'  done  as  well  as  here." 

"  It 's  a  little  too  near  that  Potter.  He  'd  smell  me  out 
as  quick  as  if  I  was  a  skunk  to  windward  of  him.  Besides, 
it 's  time  I  was  pitchin'  on  a  few  new  holes  ;  we  must  talk 
it  over  together,  Deb." 

He  lifted  the  jug  again  to  his  mouth.  Deb.  Smith,  al 
though  she  had  kept  nearly  even  pace  with  him.  was  not 
so  sensible  to  the  potency  of  the  liquor,  and  was  watching 
for  the  proper  degree  of  mellowness,  in  order  to  broach 
the  subject  over  which  she  had  been  secretly  brooding 
since  his  arrival. 

"  First  of  all,  Sandy,"  she  now  said,  "  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  Gilbert  Potter.  The  man  's  my  friend,  and  I 
thought  you  cared  enough  about  me  to  let  my  friends 
alone." 

"  So  I  do,  Deb.,  when  they  let  me  alone.  I  had  a  right 
to  shoot  the  fellow,  but  I  let  him  off  easy,  as  much  for  your 
sake  as  because  he  was  carryin'  another  man's  money." 

"  That 's  not  true  !  "  she  cried.     "  It  was  his  own  money, 


278  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

every  cent  of  it,  —  hard-earned  money,  meant  to  pay  off 
his  debts ;  and  I  can  say  it  because  I  helped  him  earn  it, 
mowin'  and  reapin'  beside  him  in  the  harvest-field,  thrashin' 
beside  him  in  the  barn,  eatin'  at  his  table,  and  sleepin' 
under  his  roof.  I  gev  him  my  word  he  was  safe  from  you, 
but  you  've  made  me  out  a  liar,  with  no  more  thought  o' 
me  than  if  I  'd  been  a  stranger  or  an  enemy ! " 

"  Come,  Deb.,  don't  get  into  your  tantrums.  Potter  may 
be  a  decent  fellow,  as  men  go,  for  anything  I  know,  but 
you  're  not  beholden  to  him  because  he  treated  you  like  a 
Christian  as  you  are.  You  seem  to  forgit  that  he  tried  to 
take  my  life,  —  that  he  's  hardly  yet  giv'  up  huntin'  me 
like  a  wild  beast !  Damn  him,  if  the  money  was  his,  which 
I  don't  believe,  it  would  n't  square  accounts  between  us. 
You  think  more  o'  his  money  than  o'  my  life,  you  huzzy  ! " 

"  No  I  don't,  Sandy !  "  she  protested,  "  no  I  don't.  You 
know  me  better  'n  that.  What  am  I  here  for,  to-night  ? 
Have  I  never  helped  you,  and  hid  you,  and  tramped  the 
country  for  you  back  and  forth,  by  day  and  by  night,  — 
and  for  what  ?  Not  for  money,  but  because  I  'm  your 
wife,  whether  or  not  priest  or  'squire  has  said  it.  I  thought 
you  cared  for  me,  I  did,  indeed ;  I  thought  you  might  do 
one  thing  to  please  me  !  " 

There  was  a  quivering  motion  in  the  muscles  of  her 
hard  face ;  her  lips  were  drawn  convulsively,  with  an  ex 
pression  which  denoted  weeping,  although  no  tears  came 
to  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  "  Sandy  exclaimed.  "  S'pose  you 
have  served  me,  is  n't  it  somethin'  to  have  a  man  to  serve  ? 
What  other  husband  is  there  for  you  in  the  world,  than 
me,  —  the  only  man  that  is  n't  afeard  o'  your  fist  ?  You  've 
done  your  duty  by  me,  I  '11  allow,  and  so  have  I  done  mine 
by  you  ! " 

"  Then,"  she  begged,  "  do  this  one  thing  over  and  above 
your  duty.  Do  it,  Sandy,  as  a  bit  o'  kindness  to  me,  and 
put  upon  me  what  work  you  please,  till  I  've  made  it  up 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  279 

to  you  !  You  dunno  what  it  is,  maybe,  to  have  one  person 
in  the  world  as  shows  a  sort  o'  respect  for  you  —  that  gives 
you  his  hand  honestly,  like  a  gentleman,  and  your  full 
Chris'en  name.-  It  does  good  when  a  body  's  been  banged 
about  as  I've  been,  and  more  used  to  curses  than  kind 
words,  and  not  a  friend  to  look  after  me  if  I  was  layin'  at 
Death's  door  —  and  I  don't  say  you  would  n't  come,  Sandy, 
but  you  can't.  And  there  's  no  denyin'  that  he  had  the 
law  on  his  side,  and  is  n't  more  an  enemy  than  any  other 
man.  Maybe  he  'd  even  be  a  friend  in  need,  as  far  as  he 
dared,  if  you  'd  only  do  it  "  — 

"  Do  what  ?  ^Vliat  in  the  Devil's  name  is  the  woman 
drivin'  at  ?  "  yelled  Sandy  Flash. 

"  Give  back  the  money ;  it 's  his'n,  not  Barton's,  —  I 
know  it.  Tell  me  where  it  is,  and  I  '11  manage  the  whole 
thing  for  you.  It 's  got  to  be  paid  in  a  month  or  two,  folks 
says,  and  they  '11  come  on  him  for  it,  maybe  take  and  sell 
his  farm  —  sell  th'  only  house,  Sandy,  where  I  git  my 
rights,  th'  only  house  where  I  git  a  bit  o'  peace  an'  com 
fort  !  You  would  n't  be  that  hard  on  me  ?  " 

The  highwayman  took  another  deep  drink  and  rose  to 
his  feet  His  face  was  stern  and  threatening.  "  I  've 
had  enough  o'  this  foolery,"  he  said.  "  Once  and  for  all, 
Deb.,  don't  you  poke  your  nose  into  my  affairs !  Give 
back  the  money  ?  Tell  you  where  it  is  ?  Pay  him  for 
huntin'  me  down?  I  could  take  you  by  the  hair  and 
knock  your  head  ag'in  the  wall,  for  them  words  ! " 

She  arose  also  and  confronted  him.  The  convulsive 
twitching  of  her  mouth  ceased,  and  her  face  became  as 
hard  and  defiant  as  his.  "  Sandy  Flash,  mark  my  words  ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  You  're  a-goin'  the  wrong  way,  when 
you  stop  takin'  only  from  the  Collectors  and  the  proud 
rich  men.  and  sparin'  the  poor.  Instead  o'  doin'  good  to 
balance  the  bad,  it  '11  soon  be  all  bad,  and  you  no  better  'n 
a  common  thief !  You  need  n't  show  your  teeth ;  it 's 
true,  and  I  say  it  satuare  to  y'r  face  ! " 


280  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

She  saw  the  cruel  intensity  of  his  anger,  but  did  not 
flinch.  They  had  had  many  previous  quarrels,  in  which 
neither  could  claim  any  very  great  advantage  over  the 
other ;  but  the  highwayman  was  now  in  an  impatient  and 
exasperated  mood,  and  she  dared  more  than  she  suspected 
in  defying  him. 

"  You !  "  (the  epithet  he  used  cannot  be  written,) 

"  will  you  stop  your  jaw,  or  shall  I  stop  it  for  you  ?  I  'm 
your  master,  and  1  give  you  your  orders,  and  the  first 
order  is,  Not  another  word,  now  and  never,  about  Potter 
or  his  money  ! " 

He  had  never  before  outraged  her  by  such  a  word,  never 
before  so  brutally  asserted  his  claim  to  her  obedience.  All 
the  hot,  indignant  force  of  her  fierce,  coarse  nature  rose  in 
resistance.  She  was  thoroughly  aroused  and  fearless. 
The  moment  had  come,  she  felt,  when  the  independence 
which  had  been  her  compensation  amid  all  the  hardships 
and  wrongs  of  her  life,  was  threatened,  —  when  she  must 
either  preserve  it  by  a  desperate  effort,  or  be  trampled 
under  foot  by  this  man,  whom  she  both  loved  and  feared, 
and  in  that  moment,  hated. 

"I '11  not  hold  my  jaw!"  she  cried,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  Not  even  at  your  biddin',  Sandy  Flash !  I  '11  not  rest  till 
I  have  the  money  out  o'  you  ;  there  's  no  law  ag'inst  stealin' 
from  a  thief!" 

The  answer  was  a  swift,  tremendous  blow  of  the  high 
wayman's  fist,  delivered  between  her  eyes.  She  fell,  and 
lay  for  a  moment  stunned,  the  blood  streaming  from  her 
face.  Then  with  a  rapid  movement,  she  seized  the  hunt 
ing-knife  which  lay  beside  the  fire,  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

The  knife  was  raised  in  her  right  hand,  and  her  impulse 
was  to  plunge  it  into  his  heart.  But  she  could  not  avoid 
his  eyes  ;  they  caught  and  held  her  own,  as  if  by  some 
diabolical  fascination.  He  stood  motionless,  apparently 
awaiting  the  blow.  Nothing  in  his  face  or  attitude  ex 
pressed  fear;  only  all  the  power  of  the  man  seemed  to 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  281 

be  concentrated  in  his  gaze,  and  to  hold  her  back.  The 
impulse  once  arrested,  he  knew,  it  would  not  return.  The 
eyes  of  each  were  fixed  on  the  other's,  and  several  minutes 
of  awful  silence  thus  passed. 

Finally,  Deb.  Smith  slightly  shuddered,  as  if  with  cold, 
her  hand  slowly  fell,  and  without  a  word  she  turned  away 
to  wash  her  bloody  face. 

Sandy  Flash  grinned,  took  another  drink  of  whiskey, 
resumed  his  seat  before  the  fire,  and  then  proceeded  to  fill 
his  pipe.  He  lit  and  smoked  it  to  the  end,  without  turning 
his  head,  or  seeming  to  pay  the  least  attention  to  her  move 
ments.  She,  meanwhile,  had  stopped  the  flow  of  blood 
from  her  face,  bound  a  rag  around  her  forehead,  and  lighted 
her  own  pipe,  without  speaking.  The  highwayman  first 
broke  the  silence. 

"  As  I  was  a-sayin',"  he  remarked,  in  his  ordinary  tone, 
"  we  've  got  to  look  out  for  new  holes,  where  the  scent 
is  n't  so  strong  as  about  these.  What  do  you  think  o'  th' 
Octorara  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  "  she  asked.  Her  voice  was  hoarse  and 
strange,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it,  gazing  steadily  into 
the  fire  as  he  puffed  out  a  huge  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  Well,  pretty  well  down,"  he  said.  «  There  's  a  big  bit 
o'  woodland,  nigh  onto  two  thousand  acres,  belongin'  to 
somebody  in  Baltimore  that  does  n't  look  at  it  once't  in  ten 
years,  and  my  thinkin'  is,  it  'd  be  as  safe  as  the  Backwoods. 
I  must  go  to  —  it  's  no  difference  where  —  to-morrow 
mornin',  but  I  '11  be  back  day  after  to-morrow  night,  and 
you  need  n't  stir  from  here  till  I  come.  You  Ve  grub 
enough  for  that  long,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  '11  do,"  she  muttered. 

"  Then,  that 's  enough.  I  must  be  off  an  hour  before 
day,  and  I  'm  devilish  fagged  and  sleepy,  so  here  goes ! " 

With  these  words  he  rose,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  bed  of  leaves.  She  con 
tinue  d  to  smoke  her  pipe. 


282  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Deb.,"  he  said,  five  minutes  afterwards,  "  I  'm  not  sure 
o'  wakin'.  You  look  out  for  me,  —  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  hear,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  low,  hoarse  voice, 
without  turning  her  head.  In  a  short  time  Sandy  Flash's 
deep  breathing  announced  that  he  slept.  Then  she  turned 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  grim,  singular  smile,  as  the  waver 
ing  fire-light  drew  clear  pictures  of  his  face  which  the 
darkness  as  constantly  wiped  out  again.  By-and-by  she 
noiselessly  moved  her  seat  nearer  to  the  wall,  leaned  her 
head  against  the  rough  logs,  and  seemed  to  sleep.  But, 
even  if  it  were  sleep,  she  was  conscious  of  his  least  move 
ment,  and  started  into  alert  wakefulness,  if  he  turned,  mut 
tered  in  dreams,  or  crooked  a  finger  among  the  dead 
leaves.  From  time  to  time  she  rose,  stole  out  of  the  cabin 
and  looked  at  the  sky.  Thus  the  night  passed  away. 

There  was  no  sign  of  approaching  dawn  in  the  dull, 
overcast,  snowy  air ;  but  a  blind,  animal  instinct  of  time 
belonged  to  her  nature,  and  about  two  hours  before  sun 
rise,  she  set  about  preparing  a  meal.  When  all  was  ready, 
she  bent  over  Sandy  Flash,  seized  him  by  the  shoulder,  and 
shook  his  eyes  open. 

"  Time  ! "  was  all  she  said. 

He  sprang  up,  hastily  devoured  the  bread  and  meat, 
and  emptied  the  jug  of  its  last  remaining  contents. 

"  Hark  ye,  Deb.,"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  had  finished, 
"  you  may  as  well  trudge  over  to  the  Turk's  Head  and  fill 
this  while  I  'm  gone.  We  '11  need  all  of  it,  and  more,  to 
morrow  night.  Here  's  a  dollar,  to  pay  for 't.  Now  I  must 
be  on  the  tramp,  but  you  may  look  for  me  to-morrow,  an 
hour  after  sun." 

He  examined  his  pistols,  stuck  them  in  his  belt,  threw 
his  drover's  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  and  strode  out  of  the 
cabin.  She  waited  until  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  had 
died  away  in  the  cold,  dreary  gloom,  and  then  threw  her 
self  upon  the  pallet  which  he  had  vacated.  This  time  she 
slept  soundly,  until  hours  after  the  gray  winter  day  had 
come  up  the  sky. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  283 

Her  eyes  were  nearly  closed  by  the  swollen  flesh,  and 
she  laid  handfuls  of  snow  upon  her  face,  to  cool  the  inflam- 
ation.  At  first,  her  movements  were  uncertain,  express 
ing  a  fierce  conflict,  a  painful  irresolution  of  feeling ;  she 
picked  up  the  hunting-knife,  looked  at  it  with  a  ghastly 
smile,  and  then  threw  it  from  her.  Suddenly,  however, 
her  features  changed,  and  every  trace  of  her  former  hesi 
tation  vanished.  After  hurriedly  eating  the  fragments  left 
from  Sandy's  breakfast,  she  issued  from  the  cabin  and  took 
a  straight  and  rapid  course  eastward,  up  and  over  the  hill. 

During  the  rest  of  that  day  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
next,  the  cabin  was  deserted. 

It  was  almost  sunset,  and  not  more  than  an  hour  before 
Sandy  Flash's  promised  return,  when  Deb.  Smith  again 
made  her  appearance.  Her  face  was  pale,  (except  for  the 
dark  blotches  around  the  eyes,)  worn,  and  haggard ;  she 
seemed  to  have  grown  ten  years  older  in  the  interval. 

Her  first  care  was  to  rekindle  the  fire  and  place  the  re 
plenished  jug  in  its  accustomed  place.  Then  she  arranged 
and  rearranged  the  rude  blocks  which  served  for,  seats,  the 
few  dishes  and  the  articles  of  food  on  the  shelf,  and,  when 
all  had  been  done,  paced  back  and  forth  along  the  narrow 
floor,  as  if  pushed  by  some  invisible,  tormenting  power. 

Finally  a  whistle  was  heard,  and  in  a  minute  afterwards 
Sandy  Flash  entered  the  door.  The  bright  blaze  of  the 
hearth  shone  upon  his  bold,  daring,  triumphant  face. 

u  That 's  right,  Deb.,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  dry  and  hungry, 
and  here  's  a  rabbit  you  can  skin  and  set  to  broil  in  no 
time.  Let 's  look  at  you.  old  gal !  The  devil !  —  I  did  n't 
mean  to  mark  you  like  that.  Well,  bygones  is  bygones, 
and  better  times  is  a-comin'." 

"  Sandy  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  sudden,  appealing  energy, 
«  Sandy  —  once't  more !  Won't  you  do  for  me  what  I  want 
o'you?" 

His  face  darkened  in  an  instant.  "  Deb. ! "  was  all  the 
word  he  uttered,  but  she  understood  the  tone. 


284  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

He  took  off  his  pistol-belt  and  laid  it  on  the  shelf.  "  Lay 
there,  pets ! "  he  said ;  "  I  won't  want  you  to-night.  A 
long  tramp  it  was,  and  I  'm  glad  it 's  over.  Deb.,  I  guess 
I  've  nigh  tore  off  one  o'  my  knee-buckles,  comin'  through 
the  woods." 

Placing  his  foot  upon  one  of  the  logs,  he  bent  down  to 
examine  the  buckle.  Quick  as  lightning,  Deb.,  who  was 
standing  behind  him,  seized  each  of  his  arms,  just  above 
the  elbows,  with  her  powerful  hands,  and  drew  them  to 
wards  each  other  upon  his  back.  At  the  same  time  she 
uttered  a  shrill,  wild  cry,  —  a  scream  so  strange  and  un 
earthly  in  its  character  that  Sandy  Flash's  blood  chilled  to 
hear  it. 

"  Curse  you,  Deb.,  what  are  you  doing  ?  Are  you  clean 
mad  ?  "  he  ejaculated,  struggling  violently  to  free  his  arms. 

"  Which  is  strongest  now  ?  "  she  asked ;  "  my  arms,  or 
your'n  ?  I  've  got  you,  I  '11  hold  you,  and  I  '11  only  let  go 
when  I  please  ! " 

He  swore  and  struggled,  but  he  was  powerless  in  her 
iron  grip.  In  another  minute  the  door  of  the  cabin  was 
suddenly  burst  open,  and  two  armed  men  sprang  upon  him. 
More  rapidly  than  the  fact  can  be  related,  they  snapped  a 
pair  of  heavy  steel  handcuffs  upon  his  wrists,  pinioned  his 
arms  at  his  sides,  and  bound  his  knees  together.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  Deb.  Smith  relaxed  her  hold. 

Sandy  Flash  made  one  tremendous  muscular  effort,  to 
test  the  strength  of  his  bonds,  and  then  stood  motionless. 
His  white  teeth  flashed  between  his  parted  lips,  and  there 
was  a  dull,  hard  glare  in  his  eyes  which  told  that  though 
struck  dumb  with  astonishment  and  impotent  rage,  he  was 
still  fearless,  still  unsubdued.  Deb.  Smith,  behind  him, 
leaned  against  the  wall,  pale  and  panting. 

"  A  good  night's  work  ! "  remarked  Chaffey,  the  consta 
ble,  as  he  possessed  himself  of  the  musket,  pistol-belt,  and 
hunting-knife.  "  I  guess  this  pitcher  won't  go  to  the  well 
any  more." 


THE   STORY   OF  KENXETT.  285 

"  We  11  see."  Sandy  exclaimed,  with  a  sneer.  "  You  've 
got  me,  not  through  any  pluck  o'  your'n,  but  through  black, 
underhanded  treachery.  You  'd  better  double  chain  and 
handcuff  me,  or  I  may  be  too  much  for  you  yet !  " 

"  I  guess  you  '11  do,"  said  the  constable,  examining  the 
cords  by  the  light  of  a  lantern  which  his  assistant  had  in 
the  mean  time  fetched  from  without.  "  I  '11  even  untie 
your  knees,  for  you  've  to  walk  over  the  hill  to  the  next 
farm-house,  where  we  '11  find  a  wagon  to  carry  you  to 
Chester  jail.  I  promise  you  more  comfortable  quarters 
than  these,  by  daylight." 

The  constable  then  turned  to  Deb.  Smith,  who  had 
neither  moved  nor  spoken. 

"  You  need  n't  come  with  us  without  you  want  to,"  he 
said.  "  You  can  get  your  share  of  the  money  at  any  time ; 
but  you  must  remember  to  be  ready  to  appear  and  testify, 
when  Court  meets." 

"  Must  I  do  that  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  Why,  to  be  sure  !  It 's  a  reg'lar  part  of  the  trial,  and 
can't  be  left  out,  though  there  's  enough  to  hang  the  fellow 
ten  times  over,  without  you." 

The  two  unbound  Sandy  Flash's  knees  and  placed  them 
selves  on  each  side  of  him,  the  constable  holding  a  cocked 
pistol  in  his  right  hand. 

"  March  is  the  word,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  highwayman.  "  Well, 
I  'm  ready.  Potter  was  right,  after  all ;  he  said  there  'd  be 
a  curse  on  the  money,  and  there  is  ;  but  I  never  guessed  the 
curse  'd  come  upon  me  through  you,  Deb. ! " 

"  Oh,  Sandy ! "  she  cried,  starting  forward,  "  you  druv 
me  to  it !  The  curse  was  o'  your  own  makin'  —  and  I  gev 
you  a  last  chance  to-night,  but  you  thro  wed  it  from  you  ! " 

"  Very  well,  Deb,"  he  answered,  '•  if  I  've  got  my  curse, 
don't  think  you  '11  not  have  your'n  !  Go  down  to  Chester 
and  git  your  blood-money,  and  see  what  '11  come  of  it,  and 
what  '11  come  to  you  !  " 

He  turned  towards  her  as  he  spoke,  and  the  expression 


286  THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT. 

of  his  face  seemed  so  frightful  that  she  shuddered  and  cov 
ered  her  eyes.  The  next  moment,  the  old  cabin  door 
creaked  open,  fell  back  with  a  crash,  and  she  was  alone. 

She  stared  around  at  the  dreary  walls.  The  sound  of 
their  footsteps  had  died  away,  and  only  the  winter  night- 
wind  wailed  through  the  crannies  of  the  hut.  Accustomed 
as  she  was  to  solitary  life  and  rudest  shelter,  and  to  the 
companionship  of  her  superstitious  fancies,  she  had  never 
before  felt  such  fearful  loneliness,  such  overpowering  dread. 
She  heaped  sticks  upon  the  fire,  sat  down  before  it,  and 
drank  from  the  jug.  Its  mouth  was  still  wet  from  his  lips, 
and  it  seemed  that  she  was  already  drinking  down  the  com 
mencement  of  the  curse. 

Her  face  worked,  and  hard,  painful  groans  burst  from 
her  lips.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  floor  and  grovelled 
there,  until  the  woman's  relief  which  she  had  almost  un 
learned  forced  its  forgotten  way,  through  cramps  and  ago 
nies,  to  her  eyes.  In  the  violent  passion  of  her  weeping 
and  moaning,  God  saw  and  pitied,  that  night,  the  struggles 
of  a  dumb,  ignorant,  yet  not  wholly  darkened  nature. 

Two  hours  afterwards  she  arose,  sad,  stern,  and  deter 
mined,  packed  together  the  things  she  had  brought  with 
her,  quenched  the  fire  (never  again  to  be  relighted)  upon 
the  hearth,  and  took  her  way,  through  cold  and  darkness, 
down  the  valley. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  237 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

TWO    ATTEMPTS. 

THE  news  of  Sandy  Flash's  capture  ran  like  wildfire 
through  the  county.  As  the  details  became  more  correctly 
known,  there  was  great  rejoicing  but  greater  surprise,  for 
Deb.  Smith's  relation  to  the  robber,  though  possibly  sur 
mised  by  a  few,  was  unsuspected  by  the  community  at 
large.  In  spite  of  the  service  which  she  had  rendered  by 
betraying  her  paramour  into  the  hands  of  justice,  a  bitter 
feeling  of  hostility  towards  her  was  developed  among  the 
people,  and  she  was  generally  looked  upon  as  an  accom 
plice  to  Sandy  Flash's  crimes,  who  had  turned  upon  him 
only  when  she  had  ceased  to  profit  by  them. 

The  public  attention  was  thus  suddenly  drawn  away  from 
Gilbert  Potter,  and  he  was  left  to  struggle,  as  he  best 
might,  against  the  difficulties  entailed  by  his  loss.  He  had 
corresponded  with  Mr.  Trainer,  the  conveyancer  in  Ches 
ter,  and  had  learned  that  the  money  still  due  must  not  only 
be  forthcoming  on  the  first  of  April,  but  that  it  probably 
could  not  be  obtained  there.  The  excitement  for  buying 
lands  along  the  Alleghany,  Ohio,  and  Beaver  rivers,  in 
western  Pennsylvania,  had  seized  upon  the  few  capitalists 
of  the  place,  and  Gilbert's  creditor  had  already  been  sub 
jected  to  inconvenience  and  possible  loss,  as  one  result  of 
the  robbery.  Mr.  Trainer  therefore  suggested  that  he 
should  make  a  new  loan  in  his  own  neighborhood,  where 
the  spirit  of  speculation  had  not  yet  reached. 

The  advice  was  prudent  and  not  unfriendly,  although  of 
a  kind  more  easy  to  give  than  to  carry  into  execution. 
Mark's  money-belt  had  been  restored,  greatly  against  the 


288  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

will  of  the  good-hearted  fellow  (who  would  have  cheerfully 
lent  Gilbert  the  whole  amount  had  he  possessed  it),  and 
there  was  enough  grain  yet  to  be  threshed  and  sold,  to 
yield  something  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  ;  but  this  was 
all  which  Gilbert  could  count  upon  from  his  own  resources. 
He  might  sell  the  wagon  and  one  span  of  horses,  reducing 
by  their  value  the  sum  which  he  would  be  obliged  to  bor 
row;  yet  his  hope  of  recovering  the  money  in  another 
year  could  only  be  realized  by  retaining  them,  to  continue, 
from  time  to  time,  his  occupation  of  hauling  flour. 

Although  the  sympathy  felt  for  him  was  general  and 
very  hearty,  it  never  took  the  practical  form  of  an  offer  of 
assistance,  and  he  was  far  too  proud  to  accept  that  plan  of 
relief  which  a  farmer,  whose  barn  had  been  struck  by 
lightning  and  consumed,  had  adopted,  the  previous  year,  — 
going  about  the  neighborhood  with  a  subscription-list,  and 
soliciting  contributions.  His  nearest  friends  were  as  poor 
as,  or  poorer  than,  himself,  and  those  able  to  aid  him  felt 
no  call  to  tender  their  services. 

Martha  Deane  knew  of  this  approaching  trouble,  not 
from  Gilbert's  own  lips,  for  she  had  seen  him  but  once  and 
very  briefly  since  his  return  from  the  chase  of  Sandy  Flash. 
It  was  her  cousin  Mark,  who,  having  entered  into  an  alli 
ance,  offensive  and  defensive,  with  her  lover,  betrayed  (con 
sidering  that  the  end  sanctioned  the  means)  the  confidence 
reposed  in  him. 

The  thought  that  her  own  coming  fortune  lay  idle,  while 
Gilbert  might  be  saved  by  the  use  of  a  twentieth  part  of  it, 
.gave  Martha  Deane  no  peace.  The  whole  belonged  to 
him  prospectively,  yet  would  probably  be  of  less  service 
when  it  should  be  legally  her  own  to  give,  than  the  frag 
ment  which  now  would  lift  him  above  anxiety  and  humilia 
tion.  The  money  had  been  bequeathed  to  her  by  a  mater 
nal  aunt,  whose  name  she  bore,  and  the  provisions  by  which 
the  bequest  was  accompanied,  so  light  and  reasonable  be 
fore,  now  seemed  harsh  and  unkind. 


THE   STORY  OF   KENNETT.  289 

The  payment  of  the  whole  sum,  or  any  part  of  it,  she 
saw,  could  not  be  anticipated.  But  she  imagined  there 
must  be  a  way  to  obtain  a  loan  of  the  necessary  amount, 
with  the  bequest  as  security.  With  her  ignorance  of  busi 
ness  matters,  she  felt  the  need  of  counsel  in  this  emer 
gency  ;  yet  her  father  was  her  guardian,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  one  else  to  whom  she  could  properly  apply.  Not 
Gilbert,  for  she  fancied  he  might  reject  the  assistance  she 
designed,  and  therefore  she  meant  to  pay  the  debt  before  it 
became  due,  without  his  knowledge ;  nor  Mark,  nor  Farmer 
Fairthorn.  Betsy  Lavender,  when  appealed  to,  shook  her 
head,  and  remarked,  — 

"  Lord  bless  you,  child !  a  wuss  snarl  than  ever.  I  'm 
gittin'  a  bit  skeary.  when  you  talk  o'  law  and  money  mat 
ters,  and  that 's  the  fact.  Not  that  I  find  fault  with  your 
wishin'  to  do  it,  but  the  contrary,  and  there  might  be  ways, 
as  you  say,  only  I  'm  not  lawyer  enough  to  find  'em,  and  as 
to  advisin'  where  I  don't  see  my  way  clear,  Defend  me  from 
it!" 

Thus  thrown  back  upon  herself,  Martha  was  forced  to 
take  the  alternative  which  she  would  gladly  have  avoided, 
and  from  which,  indeed,  she  hoped  nothing,  —  an  appeal 
to  her  father.  Gilbert  Potter's  name  had  not  again  been 
mentioned  between  them.  She,  for  her  part,  had  striven  to 
maintain  her  usual  gentle,  cheerful  demeanor,  and  it  is 
probable  that  Dr.  Deane  made  a  similar  attempt ;  but  he 
could  not  conceal  a  certain  coldness  and  stiffness,  which 
made  an  uncomfortable  atmosphere  in  their  little  house 
hold. 

"  Well,  Betsy,"  Martha  said  (they  were  in  her  room,  up 
stairs),  '•  Father  has  just  come  in  from  the  stable,  I  see. 
Since  there  is  no  other  way,  I  will  go  down  and  ask  his 
advice." 

"  You  don't  mean  it,  child  !  "  cried  the  spinster. 

Martha  left  the  room,  without  answer. 
."  She 's  got  that  from  him,  anyhow,"  Miss  Betsy  remarked, 
19 


290  THE  STORY  OF   KENNETT. 

"and  which  o'  the  two  is  stubbornest,  I  could  n't  under 
take  to  say.  If  he  's  dead-set  on  the  wrong  side,  why? 
she  's  jist  as  dead-set  on  the  right  side,  and  that  makes  a 
mortal  difference.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  all  of  a 
trimble,  that  only  sets  here  and  waits,  while  she  's  stickin' 
her  head  into  the  lion's  mouth  ;  but  so  it  is  !  Is  n't  about 
time  for  you  to  be  doin'  something  Betsy  Lavender  ! " 

Martha  Deane  entered  the  front  sitting-room  with  a 
grave,  deliberate  step.  The  Doctor  sat  at  his  desk,  with  a 
pair  of  heavy  silver-rimmed  spectacles  on  his  nose,  looking 
over  an  antiquated  "Materia  Medica."  His  upper  lip 
seemed  to  have  become  harder  and  thinner,  at  the  expense 
of  the  under  one,  which  pouted  in  a  way  that  expressed 
vexation  and  ill-temper.  He  was,  in  fact,  more  annoyed 
than  he  would  have  confessed  to  any  human  being.  Alfred 
Barton's  visits  had  discontinued,  and  he  could  easily  guess 
the  reason.  Moreover,  a  suspicion  of  Gilbert  Potter's  re 
lation  to  his  daughter  was  slowly  beginning  to  permeate 
the  neighborhood ;  and  more  than  once,  within  the  last  few 
days,  all  his  peculiar  diplomacy  had  been  required  to  parry 
a  direct  question.  He  foresaw  that  the  subject  would  soon 
come  to  the  notice  of  his  elder  brethren  among  the  Friends, 
who  felt  self-privileged  to  rebuke  and  remonstrate,  even  in 
family  matters  of  so  delicate  a  nature. 

It  was  useless,  the  Doctor  knew,  to  attempt  coercion  with 
Martha.  If  any  measure  could  succeed  in  averting  the 
threatened  shame,  it  must  be  kindly  persuasion,  coupled 
with  a  calm,  dispassionate  appeal  to  her  understanding. 
The  quiet,  gentle  way  in  which  she  had  met  his  anger,  he 
now  saw,  had  left  the  advantage  of  the  first  encounter  on 
her  side.  His  male  nature  and  long  habit  of  rule  made  an 
equal  self-control  very  difficult,  on  his  part,  and  he  resolved 
to  postpone  a  recurrence  to  the  subject  until  he  should  feel 
able  to  meet  his  daughter  with  her  own  weapons.  Proba 
bly  some  reflection  of  the  kind  then  occupied  his  mind,  in 
spite  of  the  "  Materia  Medica  "  before  him. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  291 

"Father,"  said  Martha,  seating  herself  with  a  bit  of 
sewing  in  her  hand,  "  I  want  to  ask  thee  a  few  questions 
about  business  matters." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her.  "  Well,  thee  's  taking  a  new 
turn,"  he  remarked.  "  Is  it  anything  very  important  ?  " 

"  Very  important,"  she  answered ;  "  it 's  about  my  own 
fortune." 

"  I  thought  thee  understood,  Martha,  that  that  matter 
was  all  fixed  and  settled,  until  thee  's  twenty-five,  unless  — 
unless  "  — 

Here  the  Doctor  hesitated.  He  did  not  wish  to  intro 
duce  the  sore  subject  of  his  daughter's  marriage. 

"  I  know  what  thee  means,  father.  Unless  I  should 
sooner  marry,  with  thy  consent.  But  I  do  not  expect  to 
marry  now,  and  therefore  do  not  ask  thy  permission.  What 
I  want  to  know  is,  whether  I  could  not  obtain  a  loan  of  a 
small  sum  of  money,  on  the  security  of  the  legacy  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  circumstances,"  said  the  Doctor, 
slowly,  and  after  a  long  pause,  during  which  he  endeav 
ored  to  guess  his  daughter's  design.  "  It  might  be,  —  yes, 
it  might  be ;  but,  Martha,  surely  thee  does  n't  want  for 
money  ?  Why  should  thee  borrow  ?  " 

"  Could  n't  thee  suppose,  father,  that  I  need  it  for  some 
good  purpose  ?  I  've  always  had  plenty,  it  is  true  ;  but  I 
don't  think  thee  can  say  I  ever  squandered  it  foolishly  or 
thoughtlessly.  This  is  a  case  where  I  wish  to  make  an 
investment,  —  a  permanent  investment." 

"Ah,  indeed?  I  always  fancied  thee  cared  less  for 
money  than  a  prudent  woman  ought.  How  much  might 
this  investment  be  ?  " 

"  About  six  hundred  dollars,"  she  answered. 

"  Six  hundred  !  "  exclaimed  the  Doctor ;  "  that  rs  a  large 
sum  to  venture,  a  large  sum  !  Since  thee  can  only  raise  it 
with  my  help,  thee  '11  certainly  admit  my  right,  as  thy  legal 
guardian,  if  not  as  thy  father,  to  ask  where,  how,  and  on 
what  security  the  money  will  be  invested  ?  " 


292  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. " 

Martha  hesitated  only  long  enough  to  reflect  that  her 
father's  assertion  was  probably  true,  and  without  his  aid 
she  could  do  nothing.  "  Father,"  she  then  said,  "/am  the 
security." 

"  I  don't  understand  thee,  child." 

"  I  mean  that  my  whole  legacy  will  be  responsible  to  the 
lender  for  its  repayment  in  three  years  from  this  time.  The 
security  /ask,  I  have  in  advance  ;  it  is  the  happiness  of  my 
life  ! " 

"  Martha  !  thee  does  n't  mean  to  say  that  thee  would  " — 

Dr.  Deane  could  get  no  further.  Martha,  with  a  sorrow 
ful  half- smile,  took  up  his  word. 

"  Yes,  father,  I  would.  Lest  thee  should  not  have  un 
derstood  me  right,  I  repeat  that  I  would,  and  will,  lift  the 
mortgage  on  Gilbert  Potter's  farm.  He  has  been  very 
unfortunate,  and  there  is  a  call  for  help  which-  nobody 
heeds  as  he  deserves.  If  I  give  it  now,  I  simply  give  a 
part  in  advance.  The  whole  will  be  given  afterwards." 

Dr.  Deane's  face  grew  white,  and  his  lip  trembled,  in 
spite  of  himself.  It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  he  ven 
tured  to  say,  in  a  tolerably  steady  voice,  — 

"  Thee  still  sets  up  thy  right  (as  thee  calls  it)  against 
mine,  but  mine  is  older  built  and  will  stand.  To  help  thee 
to  this  money  would  only  be  to  encourage  thy  wicked  fancy 
for  the  man.  Of  course,  I  can't  do  it ;  I  wonder  thee 
should  expect  it  of  me.  I  wonder,  indeed,  thee  should 
think  of  taking  as  a  husband  one  who  borrows  money  of 
thee  almost  as  soon  as  he  has  spoken  his  mind ! " 

For  an  instant  Martha  Deane's  eyes  flashed.  "  Father ! " 
she  cried,  "  it  is  not  so  !  Gilbert  does  n't  even  know  my 
desire  to  help  him.  I  must  ask  this  of  thee,  to  speak  no 
evil  of  him  in  my  hearing.  It  would  only  give  me  unne 
cessary  pain,  not  shake  my  faith  in  his  honesty  and  good 
ness.  I  see  thee  will  not  assist  me,  and  so  I  must  en 
deavor  to  find  whether  the  thing  cannot  be  done  without 
thy  assistance.  In  three  years  more  the  legacy  will  be 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  293 

mine  ;  I  shall  go  to  Chester,  and  consult  a  lawyer,  whether 
my  own  note  for  that  time  could  not  be  accepted ! " 

"  I  can  spare  thee  the  trouble,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  In 
case  of  thy  death  before  the  three  years  are  out,  who  is  to 
pay  the  note  ?  Half  the  money  falls  to  me,  and  half  to  thy 
uncle  Richard.  Thy  aunt  Martha  was  wise.  It  truly  seems 
as  if  she  had  foreseen  just  what  has  happened,  and  meant 
to  baulk  thy  present  rashness.  Thee  may  go  to  Chester, 
and  welcome,  if  thee  doubts  my  word ;  but  unless  thee  can 
give  positive  assurance  that  thee  will  be  alive  in  three 
years'  time,  I  don't  know  of  any  one  foolish  enough  to 
advance  thee  money." 

The  Doctor's  words  were  cruel  enough ;  he  might  have 
spared  his  triumphant,  mocking  smile.  Martha's  heart 
sank  within  her,  as  she  recognized  her  utter  helplessness. 
Not  yet,  however,  would  she  give  up  the  sweet  hope  of 
bringing  aid ;  for  Gilbert's  sake  she  would  make  another 
appeal.  • 

"  I  won't  charge  thee,  father,  with  being  intentionally  un 
kind.  It  would  almost  seem,  from  thy  words,  that  thee  is 
rather  glad  than  otherwise,  because  my  life  is  uncertain.  If 
I  should  die,  would  thee  not  care  enough  for  my  memory  to 
pay  a  debt,  the  incurring  of  which  brought  me  peace  and 
happiness  during  life  ?  Then,  surely,  thee  would  forgive  ; 
thy  heart  is  not  so  hard  as  thee  would  have  me  believe ; 
thee  wishes  me  happiness,  I  cannot  doubt,  but  thinks  it  will 
come  in  thy  way,  not  in  mine.  Is  it  not  possible  to  grant 
me  this  —  only  this  —  and  leave  everything  else  to  time  ?  " 

Dr.  Deane  was  touched  and  softened  by  his  daughter's 
words.  Perhaps  he  might  even  have  yielded  to  her  en 
treaty  at  once,  had  not  a  harsh  and  selfish  condition  pre 
sented  itself  in  a  very  tempting  form  to  his  mind. 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  "  I  fancy  that  thee  looks  upon  this 
matter  of  the  loan  in  the  light  of  a  duty,  and  will  allow  that 
thy  motives  may  be  weighty  to  thy  own  mind.  I  ask  thee 
to  calm  thyself,  and  consider  things  clearly.  If  I  grant  thy 


294  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

request,  I  do  so  against  my  own  judgment,  yea,  —  since  it 
concerns  thy  interests, —  against  my  own  conscience.  This 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  lightly  done,  and  if  I  should  yield,  I 
might  reasonably  expect  some  little  sacrifice  of  present 
inclination  —  yet  all  for  thy  future  good  —  on  thy  part. 
I  would  cheerfully  borrow  the  six  hundred  dollars  for  thee, 
or  make  it  up  from  my  own  means,  if  need  be,  to  know  that 
the  prospect  of  thy  disgrace  was  averted.  Thee  sees  no 
disgrace,  I  am  aware,  and  pity  that  it  is  so ;  but  if  thy 
feeling  for  the  young  man  is  entirely  pure  and  unselfish,  it 
should  be  enough  to  know  that  thee  had  saved  him  from 
ruin,  without  considering  thyself  bound  to  him  for  life." 

The  Doctor  sharply  watched  his  daughter's  face  while 
he  spoke.  She  looked  up,  at  first,  with  an  eager,  wonder 
ing  light  of  hope  in  her  eyes,  —  a  light  that  soon  died 
away,  and  gave  place  to  a  cloudy,  troubled  expression. 
Then  the  blood  rose  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  lips  assumed 
the  clear,  firm  curve  which  always  reflected  the  decisions  of 
her  mind. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  I  see  thee  has  learned  how  to 
tempt,  as  well  as  threaten.  For  the  sake  of  doing  a  pres 
ent  good,  thee  would  have  me  bind  myself  to  do  a  life-long 
injustice.  Thee  would  have  me  take  an  external  duty  to 
balance  a  violation  of  the  most  sacred  conscience  of  my 
heart.  How  little  thee  knows  me  !  It  is  not  alone  that  I 
am  necessary  to  Gilbert  Potter's  happiness,  but  also  that  he 
is  necessary  to  mine.  Perhaps  it  is  the  will  of  Heaven  that 
so  great  a  bounty  should  not  come  to  me  too  easily,  and  I 
must  bear,  without  murmuring,  that  my  own  father  is  set 
against  me.  Thee  may  try  me,  if  thee  desires,  for  the  com 
ing  three  years,  but  I  can  tell  thee  as  well,  now,  what  the 
end  will  be.  Why  not  rather  tempt  me  by  offering  the 
money  Gilbert  needs,  on  the  condition  of  my  giving  up  the 
rest  of  the  legacy  to  thee  ?  That  would  be  a  temptation, 
I  confess." 

"  No  ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  rising  exasperation,  "  if  thee 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  295 

has  hardened  thy  heart  against  all  my  counsels  for  thy 
good,  I  will  at  least  keep  my  own  conscience  free.  I  will 
not  help  thee  by  so  much  as  the  moving  of  a  finger.  All  I 
can  do  is,  to  pray  that  thy  stubborn  mind  may  be  bent, 
and  gradually  led  back  to  the  Light } " 

He  put  away  the  book,  took  his  cane  and  broad-brimmed 
hat,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Martha  rose,  with  a 
sad  but  resolute  face,  and  went  up-stairs  to  her  chamber. 

Miss  Betsy  Lavender,  when  she  learned  all  that  had  been 
said,  on  both  sides,  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  great  agita 
tion  and  perplexity  of  mind.  She  stared  at  Martha  Deane, 
without  seeming  to  see  her,  and  muttered  from  time  to  time 
such  fragmentary  phrases  as,  —  "  If  I  was  right-down  sure," 
or,  "  It  'd  only  be  another  weepon  tried  and  throwed  away, 
at  the  wust" 

'•'What  are  you  thinking  of,  Betsy?"  Martha  finally 
asked. 

-  Thinkin'  of?  Well,  I  can't  rightly  tell  you.  It 's  a  bit 
o'  knowledge  that  come  in  my  way,  once't  upon  a  time, 
never  meanin'  to  make  use  of  it  in  all  my  born  days,  and 
I  would  n't  now,  only  for  your  two  sa^es  ;  not  that  it  con 
cerns  you  a  mite ;  but  never  mind,  there  's  ten  thousand 
ways  o'  workin'  on  men's  minds,  and  I  can't  do  no  more 
than  try  my  way."  • 

Thereupon  Miss  Lavender  arose,  and  would  have  de 
scended  to  the  encounter  at  once,  had  not  Martha  wisely 
entreated  her  to  wait  a  day  or  two,  until  the  irritation  aris 
ing  from  her  own  interview  had  had  time  to  subside  in  her 
father's  mind. 

"  It 's  puttin'~me  on  nettles,  now  that  I  mean  fast  and  firm 
to  do  it ;  but  you  're  quite  right,  Martha,"  the  spinster  said. 

Three  or  four  days  afterwards  she  judged  the  proper 
time  had  arrived,  and  boldly  entered  the  Doctor's  awful 
presence.  "  Doctor,"  she  began,  "  I  've  come  to  have  a  lit 
tle  talk,  and  it 's  no  use  beatin'  about  the  bush,  plainness  o' 
speech  bein'  one  o'  my  ways ;  not  that  folks  always  thinks 


296  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

it  a  virtue,  but  oftentimes  the  contrary,  and  so  may  you, 
maybe  ;  but  when  there  's  a  worry  in  a  house,  it 's  better, 
whatsoever  and  whosoever,  to  have  it  come  to  a  head  than 
go  on  achin'  and  achin',  like  a  blind  bile ! " 

"  H'm,"  snorted  the  Doctor,  "  I  see  what  thee  's  driving 
at,  and  I  may  as  well  tell  thee  at  once,  that  if  thee  comes 
to  me  from  Martha,  I  've  heard  enough  from  her,  and  more 
than  enough." 

"  More  'n  enough,"  repeated  Miss  Lavender.  "  But 
you  're  wrong.  I  come  neither  from  Martha,  nor  yet  from 
Gilbert  Potter  ;  but  I  've  been  thinkin'  that  you  and  me, 
bein'  old, — in  a  measure,  that  is, — and  not  so  direckly  con 
cerned,  might  talk  the  thing  over  betwixt  and  between  us, 
and  maybe  come  to  a  better  understandin'  for  both  sides." 

Dr.  Deane  was  not  altogether  disinclined  to  accept  this 
proposition.  Although  Miss  Lavender  sometimes  annoyed 
him,  as  she  rightly  conjectured,  by  her  plainness  of  speech, 
he  had  great  respect  for  her  shrewdness  and  her  practical 
wisdom.  If  he  could  but  even  partially  win  her  to  his 
views,  she  would  be  a  most  valuable  ally. 

"  Then  say  thy  say,  Betsy,"  he  assented. 

"  Thy  say,  Betsy.  Well,  first  and  foremost,  I  guess  we 
may  look  upon  Alf.  Barton's  courtin'  o'  Martha  as  broke 
toff  for  good,  the  fact  bein'  that  he  never  wanted  to  have 
her,  as  he  's  told  me  since  with  his  own  mouth." 

«  What  ?  "  Dr.  Deane  exclaimed. 

"  With  his  own  mouth,"  Miss  Lavender  repeated.  "And 
as  to  his  reasons  for  lettin'  on,  I  don't  know  'em.  Maybe 
you  can  guess  'em,  as  you  seem  to  ha'  had  everything  cut 
and  dried  betwixt  and  between  you ;  but  that 's  neither 
here  nor  there  —  Alf.  Barton  bein'  out  o'  the  way,  why, 
the  coast 's  clear,  and  so  Gilbert's  case  is  to  be  considered 
by  itself;  and  let 's  come  to  the  p'int,  namely,  what  you  've 
got  ag'in  him  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  thee  can  ask,  Betsy  !  He  's  poor,  he 's  base- 
born,  without  position  or  influence  in  the  neighborhood,  — 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  297 

in  no  way  a  husband  for  Martha  Deane !  If  her  head  's 
turned  because  he  has  been  robbed,  and  marvellously  saved, 
and  talked  about,  I  suppose  I  must  wait  till  she  comes  to 
her  right  senses." 

"  I  rather  expect,"  Miss  Lavender  gravely  remarked, 
"  tnat  they  were  bespoke  before  all  that  happened,  and  it 's 
not  a  case  o'  suddent  fancy,  but  somethin'  bred  in  the  bone 
and  not  to  be  cured  by  plasters.  We  won't  talk  o'  that  now, 
but  come  back  to  Gilbert  Potter,  and  I  dunno  as  you  're 
quite  right  in  any  way  about  his  bein's  and  doin's.  TVith 
that  farm  o'  his'n,  he  can't  be  called  poor,  and  I  should  n't 
wonder,  though  I  can't  give  no  proofs,  but  never  mind, 
wait  awhile  and  you  '11  see,  that  he  's  not  base-born,  after 
all ;  and  as  for  respect  in  the  neighborhood,  there  's  not  a 
man  more  respected  nor  looked  up  to,  —  so  the  last  p'int  's 
settled,  and  we  '11  take  the  t'  other  two ;  and  I  s'pose  you 
mean  his  farm  is  n't  enough  ?  " 

"  Thee  's  right,"  Dr.  Deane  said.  "  As  Martha's  guard 
ian,  I  am  bound  to  watch  over  her  interests,  and  every 
prudent  man  will  agree  with  me  that  her  husband  ought 
at  least  to  be  as  well  off  as  herself." 

<•  Well,  all  I  've  got  to  say,  is,  it 's  lucky  for  you  that 
Naomi  Blake  did  n't  think  as  you  do,  when  she  married 
you.  What 's  sass  for  the  goose  ought  to  be  sass  for  the 
gander  (meanin'  you  and  Gilbert),  and  every  prudent  man 
will  agree  with  me." 

This  was  a  home-thrust,  which  Dr.  Deane  was  not  able 
to  parry.  Miss  Lavender  had  full  knowledge  whereof  she 
affirmed,  and  the  Doctor  knew  it. 

"  I  admit  that  there  might  be  other  advantages,"  he  said, 
rather  pompously,  covering  his  annoyance  with  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  — "  advantages  which  partly  balance  the  want  of 
property.  Perhaps  Xaomi  Blake  thought  so  too.  But 
here,  I  think,  it  would  be  hard  for  thee  to  find  such.  Or 
does  thee  mean  that  the  man's  disgraceful  birth  is  a  recom 
mendation  ?  " 


298  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Recommendation  ?  No !  "  Miss  Lavender  curtly  re 
plied. 

"  We  need  go  no  further,  then.  Admitting  thee  's  right 
in  all  other  respects,  here  is  cause  enough  for  me.  I  put 
it  to  thee,  as  a  sensible  woman,  whether  I  would  not  cover 
both  myself  and  Martha  with  shame,  by  allowing  her  mar 
riage  with  Gilbert  Potter  ?  " 

Miss  Lavender  sat  silently  in  her  chair  and  appeared  to 
meditate. 

"  Thee  does  n't  answer,"  the  Doctor  remarked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  I  dunno  how  it  come  about,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head 
and  fixing  her  dull  eyes  on  vacancy ;  "  I  was  thinkin'  o' 
the  time  I  was  up  at  Strasburg,  while  your  brother  was 
livin',  more  'n  twenty  year  ago. 

With  all  his  habitual  self-coritrol  and  gravity  of  deport 
ment,  Dr.  Deane  could  not  repress  a  violent  start  of  sur 
prise.  He  darted  a  keen,  fierce  glance  at  Miss  Betsy's 
face,  but  she  was  staring  at  the  opposite  wall,  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  Gilbert  Potter," 
he  presently  said,  collecting  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  Nor  I,  neither,"  Miss  Lavender  absently  replied,  "  only 
it  happened  that  I  knowed  Eliza  Little,  —  her  that  used  to 
live  at  the  Gap,  you  know,  —  and  just  afore  she  died,  that 
fall  the  fever  was  so  bad,  and  I  nussin'  her,  and  not  an 
other  soul  awake  in  the  house,  she  told  me  a  secret  about 
your  brother's  boy,  and  I  must  say  few  men  would  ha* 
acted  as  Henry  done,  and  there  's  more  'n  one  mighty  be 
holden  to  him." 

Dr.  Deane  stretched  out  his  hand  as  if  he  would  close 
her  mouth.  His  face  was  like  fire,  and  a  wild  expression 
of  fear  and  pain  shot  from  his  eyes. 

"Betsy  Lavender,"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "thee  is 
a  terrible  woman.  Thee  forces  even  the  secrets  of  the 
dying  from  them,  and  brings  up  knowledge  that  should 


THE   STORY  OF   KENNETT.  299 

be  hidden  forever.  What  can  all  this  avail  thee  ?  Why 
does  thee  threaten  me  with  appearances,  that  cannot  now 
be  explained,  all  the  witnesses  being  dead  ?  " 

"  Witnesses  bein'  dead,"  she  repeated.  "  Are  you  sorry 
for  that  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  in  silent  consternation. 

"  Doctor,"  she  said,  turning  towards  him  for  the  first 
time,  "  there  's  no  livin'  soul  that  knows,  except  you  and 
me,  and  if  I  seem  hard,  I  'm  no  harder  than  the  knowl 
edge  in  your  own  heart.  What  's  the  difference,  in  the 
sight  o'  the  Lord,  between  the  one  that  has  a  bad  name 
and  the  one  that  has  a  good  name  ?  Come,  you  set  your 
self  up  for  a  Chris'en,  and  so  I  ask  you  whether  you  're 
the  one  that  ought  to  fling  the  first  stone ;  whether 
repentance  —  and  there  's  that,  of.  course,  for  you  a'n't 
a  nateral  bad  man,  Doctor,  but  rather  the  contrary  — 
ought  n't  to  be  showed  in  deeds,  to  be  wuth  much  !• 
You  're  set  ag'in  Martha,  and  your  pride  's  touched,  which 
I  can't  say  as  I  wonder  at,  all  folks  havin'  pride,  me  among 
the  rest,  not  that  I  've  much  to  be  proud  of.  Goodness 
knows ;  but  never  mind,  don't  you  talk  about  Gilbert  Pot 
ter  in  that  style,  leastways  before  me  ! " 

During  this  speech,  Dr.  Deane  had  time  to  reflect.  Al 
though  aghast  at  the  unexpected  revelation,  he  had  not 
wholly  lost  his  cunning.  It  was  easy  to  perceive  what  Miss 
Lavender  intended  to  do  with  the  weapon  in  her  hands, 
and  his  aim  was  to  render  it  powerless. 

"  Betsy,"  he  said,  "  there  's  one  thing  thee  won't  deny, 
—  that,  if  there  was  a  fault,  (which  I  don't  allow),  it  has 
been  expiated.  To  make  known  thy  suspicions  would 
bring  sorrow  and  trouble  upon  two  persons  for  whom  thee 
professes  to  feel  some  attachment ;  if  thee  could  prove 
what  thee  thinks,  it  would  be  a  still  greater  misfortune  for 
them  than  for  me.  They  are  young,  and  my  time  is  nearly 
spent.  We  all  have  serious  burdens  which  we  must  bear 
alone,  and  thee  must  n't  forget  that  the  same  consideration 


300  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

for  the  opinion  of  men  which  keeps  thee  silent,  keeps  me 
from  consenting  to  Martha's  marriage  with  Gilbert  Potter. 
We  are  bound  alike." 

"  We  're  not ! "  she  cried,  rising  from  her  seat.  "  But 
I  see  it 's  no  use  to  talk  any  more,  now.  Perhaps  since 
you  know  that  there  's  a  window  in  you,  and  me  lookin' 
in,  you  '11  try  and  keep  th'  inside  o'  your  house  in  better 
order.  Whether  I  '11  act  accordin'  to  my  knowledge  or 
not,  depends  on  how  things  turns  out,  and  so  sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,  or  however  it  goes  !  " 

With  these  words  she  left  the  room,  though  foiled,  not 
entirely  hopeless. 

"  It  's  like  buttin'  over  an  old  stone-wall,"  she  said  to 
Martha.  "  The  first  hit  with  a  rammer  seems  to  come 
back  onto  you,  and  jars  y'r  own  bones,  and  may  be  the 
next,  and  the  next ;  and  then  little  stones  git  out  o'  place, 
"and  then  the  wall  shakes,  and  comes  down,  —  and  so 
we  Ve  been  a-doin'.  I  guess  I  made  a  crack  to-day,  but 
we  '11  see." 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  301 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE  LAST  OF  SANDY  FLASH. 

THE  winter  crept  on,  February  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
and  still  Gilbert  Potter  had  not  ascertained  whence  the 
money  was  to  be  drawn  which  would  relieve  him  from 
embarrassment.  The  few  applications  he  had  made  were 
failures ;  some  of  the  persons  really  had  no  money  to  in 
vest,  and  others  were  too  cautious  to  trust  a  man  who,  as 
everybody  knew,  had  been  unfortunate.  In  five  weeks 
more  the  sum  must  be  made  up,  or  the  mortgage  would 
be  foreclosed. 

Both  Mary  Potter  and  her  son,  in  this  emergency, 
seemed  to  have  adopted,  by  accident  or  sympathy,  the 
same  policy  towards  each  other,  —  to  cheer  and  encourage, 
in  every  possible  way.  Gilbert  carefully  concealed  his 
humiliation,  on  returning  home  from  an  unsuccessful  ap 
peal  for  a  loan,  and  his  mother  veiled  her  renewed  sinking 
of  the  heart,  as  she  heard  of  his  failure,  under  a  cheerful 
hope  of  final  success,  which  she  did  not  feel.  Both  had, 
in  fact,  one  great  consolation  to  fall  back  upon,  —  she  that 
he  had  been  mercifully  saved  to  her,  he  that  he  was  be 
loved  by  a  noble  woman. 

All  the  grain  that  could  be  spared  and  sold  placed  but 
little  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  in  Gilbert's  hands,  and 
he  began  seriously  to  consider  whether  he  should  not  be 
obliged  to  sell  his  wagon  and  team.  He  had  been  offered 
a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  (a  very  large  sum,  in  those 
days,)  for  Roger,  but  he  would  as  soon  have  sold  his  own 
right  arm.  Not  even  to  save  the  farm  would  he  have 


302  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

parted  with  the  faithful  animal.  Mark  Deane  persisted 
in  increasing  his  seventy-five  dollars  to  a  hundred,  and 
forcing  the  loan  upon  his  friend ;  so  one  third  of  the 
amount  was  secure,  and  there  was  still  hope  for  the  rest. 

It  is  not  precisely  true  that  there  had  been  no  offer  of 
assistance.  There  was  one,  which  Gilbert  half-suspected 
had  been  instigated  by  Betsy  Lavender.  On  a  Saturday 
afternoon,  as  he  visited  Kennett  Square  to  have  Roger's 
fore-feet  shod,  he  encountered  Alfred  Barton  at  the  black 
smith's  shop,  on  the  same  errand. 

"  The  man  I  wanted  to  see  !  "  cried  the  latter,  as  Gilbert 
dismounted.  "  Ferris  was  in  Chester  last  week,  and  he 
saw  Chaffey,  the  constable,  you  know,  that  helped  catch 
Sandy ;  and  Chaffey  told  him  he  was  sure,  from  something 
Sandy  let  fall,  that  Deb.  Smith  had  betrayed  him  out  of 
revenge,  because  he  robbed  you.  I  want  to  know  how  it 
all  hangs  together." 

Gilbert  suddenly  recalled  Deb.  Smith's  words,  on  the 
day  after  his  escape  from  the  inundation,  and  a  suspicion 
of  the  truth  entered  his  mind  for  the  first  time. 

"  It  must  have  been  so  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  She  has 
been  a  better  friend  to  me  than  many  people  of  better 
name." 

Barton  noticed  the  bitterness  of  the  remark,  and  possi 
bly  drew  his  own  inference  from  it.  He  looked  annoyed 
for  a  moment,  but  presently  beckoned  Gilbert  to  one  side, 
and  said,  — 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  've  given  up  your  foolish 
suspicions  about  me  and  Sandy ;  but  the  trial  comes  off 
next  week,  and  you  '11  have  to  be  there  as  a  witness,  of 
course,  and  can  satisfy  yourself,  if  you  please,  that  my  ex 
planation  was  nothing  but  the  truth.  I  Ve  not  felt  so 
jolly  in  twenty  years,  as  when  I  heard  that  the  fellow  was 
really  in  the  jug !  " 

"  I  told  you  I  believed  your  words,"  Gilbert  answered, 
"and  that  settles  the  matter.  Perhaps  I  shall  find  out 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  303 

how  Sandy  learaed  what  you  said  to  me  that  evening,  on 
the  back-porch  of  the  Unicorn,  and  if  so,  I  am  bound  to 
let  you  know  it." 

"  See  here,  Gilbert !  "  Barton  resumed.  "  Folks  say  you 
must  borrow  the  money  you  lost,  or  the  mortgage  on  your 
farm  will  be  foreclosed.  Is  that  so  ?  and  how  much  money 
might  it  be,  altogether,  if  you  don't  mind  telling  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much,  if  those  who  have  it  to  lend,  had  a  little 
faith  in  me,  —  some  four  or  five  hundred  dollars." 

"That  ought  to  be  got,  without  trouble,"  said  Barton. 
"  If  I  had  it  by  me,  I  'd  lend  it  to  you  in  a  minute  ;  but 
you  know  I  borrowed  from  Ferris  myself,  and  all  o'  my 
own  is  so  tied  up  that  I  could  n't  move  it  without  the  old 
man  getting  on  my  track.  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do, 
though  ;  I  '11  indorse  your  note  for  a  year,  if  it  can  be 
kept  a  matter  between  ourselves  and  the  lender.  On  ac 
count  of  the  old  man,  you  understand." 

The  offer  was  evidently  made  in  good  faith,  and  Gilbert 
hesitated,  reluctant  to  accept  it,  and  yet  unwilling  to  reject 
it  in  a  manner  that  might  seem  unfriendly. 

"  Barton,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  've  never  yet  failed  to 
meet  a  money  obligation.  All  my  debts,  except  this  last, 
have  been  paid  on  the  day  I  promised,  and  it  seems  a 
little  hard  that  my  own  name,  alone,  should  n't  be  good 
for  as  much  as  I  need.  Old  Fairthorn  would  give  me  his 
indorsement,  but  I  won't  ask  for  it ;  and  I  mean  no  offence 
when  I  say  that  I  'd  rather  get  along  without  yours,  if  I 
can.  It 's  kind  in  you  to  make  the  offer,  and  to  show  that 
I  'm  not  ungrateful,  I  '11  beg  you  to  look  round  among  your 
rich  friends  and  help  me  to  find  the  loan." 

"  You  're  a  mighty  independent  fellow,  Gilbert,  but  I 
can't  say  as  I  blame  you  for  it.  Yes,  I  '11  look  round  in 
a  few  days,  and  maybe  I  '11  stumble  on  the  right  man  by 
the  time  I  see  you  again." 

When  Gilbert  returned  home,  he  communicated  this 
slight  prospect  of  relief  to  his  mother.  "  Perhaps  I  am 


304  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

a  little  too  proud,"  he  said ;  "  but  you  've  always  taught  me, 
mother,  to  be  beholden  to  no  man,  if  I  could  help  it ;  and 
I  should  feel  more  uneasy  under  an  obligation  to  Barton 
than  to  most  other  men.  You  know  I  must  go  to  Chester 
in  a  few  daysy  and  must  wait  till  I  'm  called  to  testify. 
There  will  then  be  time  to  look  around,  and  perhaps  Mr. 
Trainer  may  help  me  yet." 

"  You  're  right,  boy  ! "  Mary  Potter  cried,  with  flashing 
eyes.  "•'  Keep  your  pride ;  it  's  not  of  the  mean  kind ! 
Don't  ask  for  or  take  any  man's  indorsement !  " 

Two  days  before  the  time  when  Gilbert  was  summoned 
to  Chester,  Deb.  Smith  made  her  appearance  at  the  farm. 
She  entered  the  barn  early  one  morning,  with  a  bundle  in 
her  hand,  and  dispatched  Sam,  whom  she  found  in  the 
stables,  to  summon  his  master.  She  looked  old,  weather- 
beaten,  and  haggard,  and  her* defiant  show  of  strength  was 
gone. 

In  betraying  Sandy  Flash  into  the  hands  of  justice,  she 
had  acted  from  a  fierce  impulse,  without  reflecting  upon 
the  inevitable  consequences  of  the  step.  Perhaps  she  did 
not  suspect  that  she  was  also  betraying  herself,  and  more 
than  confirming  all  the  worst  rumors  in  regard  to  her  char 
acter.  In  the  universal  execration  which  followed  the 
knowledge  of  her  lawless  connection  with  Sandy  Flash, 
and  her  presumed  complicity  in  his  crimes,  the  merit  of 
her  service  to  the  county  was  lost.  The  popular  mind, 
knowing  nothing  of  her  temptations,  struggles,  and  suffer 
ings,  was  harsh,  cold,  and  cruel,  and  she  felt  the  weight  of 
its  verdict  as  never  before.  A  few  persons  of  her  own 
ignorant  class,  who  admired  her  strength  and  courage  in 
their  coarse  way,  advised  her  to  hide  .until  the  first  fury  of 
the  storm  should  be  blown  over.  Thus  she  exaggerated 
the  danger,  and  even  felt  uncertain  of  her  reception  by  the 
very  man  for  whose  sake  she  had  done  the  deed  and  ac 
cepted  the  curse. 

Gilbert,  however,  when  he  saw  her  worn,  anxious  face, 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  305 

the  eyes,  like  those  of  a  dumb  animal,  lifted  to  his  with  an 
appeal  which  she  knew  not  how  to  speak,  felt  a  pang  of 
compassionate  sympathy. 

"  Deborah  ! "  he  said,  "  you  don't  look  well ;  come  into 
the  house  and  warm  yourself!  " 

"  No  ! "  she  cried,  "  I  won't  darken  your  door  till  you  've 
heerd  what  I  've  got  to  say.  Go  'way,  Sam ;  I  want  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Gilbert,  alone." 

Gilbert  made  a  sign,  and  Sam  sprang  down  the  ladder, 
to  the  stables  under  the  threshing-floor. 

"  Mayhap  you  've  heerd  already,"  she  said.  "  A  blotch 
on  a  body's  name  spreads  fast  and  far.  Mine  was  black 
enough  before,  God  knows,  but  they  've  blackened  it 
more." 

"  If  all  I  hear  is  true,"  Gilbert  exclaimed,  "  you  've 
blackened  it  for  my  sake,  Deborah.  I  'm  afraid  you 
thought  I  blamed  you,  in  some  way,  for  not  preventing  my 
loss ;  but  I  'm  sure  you  did  what  you  could  to  save  me 
from  it ! " 

"  Ay,  lad,  that  I  did  !  But  the  devil  seemed  to  ha'  got 
into  him.  Awful  words  passed  between  us,  and  then  — 
the  devil'got  into  me,  and  —  you  know  what  follered.  He 
would  n't  believe  the  money  was  your'n,  or  I  don't  think 
he  'd  ha'  took  it ;  he  was  n't  a  bad  man  at  heart,  Sandy 
was  n?t,  only  stubborn  at  the  wrong  times,  and  brung  it 
onto  himself  by  that.  But  you  know  what  folks  says  about 
me?" 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  say,  Deborah ! "  Gilbert  cried. 
"  I  know  that  you  are  a  true  and  faithful  friend  to  me,  and 
I  've  not  had  so  many  such  in  my  life  that  I  'm  likely  to 
forget  what  you  've  tried  to  do  !  " 

Her  hard,  melancholy  face  became  at  once  eager  and 
tender.  She  stepped  forward,  put  her  hand  on  Gilbert's 
arm,  and  said,  in  a  hoarse,  earnest,  excited  whisper, — 

"  Then  maybe  you  '11  take  it  ?  I  was  almost  afeard  to 
ax  you,  —  I  thought  you  might  push  me  away,  like  the  rest 
20 


306  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

of  'em ;  but  you  '11  take  it,  and  that  '11  seem  like  a  liftin* 
of  the  curse  !  You  won't  mind  how  it  was  got,  will  you  ? 
I  had  to  git  it  in  that  way,  because  no  other  was  left  to 
me!" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Deborah  ?  " 

"The  money,  Mr.  Gilbert!  They  allowed  me  half, 
though  the  constables  was  for  thirds,  but  the  Judge  said 
I  'd  arned  the  full  half,  —  God  knows,  ten  thousand  times 
would  n't  pay  me !  • —  and  I  've  got  it  here,  tied  up  safe. 
It 's  your'n,  you  know,  and  maybe  there  a'n't  quite  enough, 
but  as  fur  as  it  goes  ;  and  I  '11  work  out  the  amount  o'  the 
rest,  from  time  to  time,  if  you  '11  let  me  come  onto  your 
place  ! " 

Gilbert  was  powerfully  and  yet  painfully  moved.  He 
forgot  his  detestation  of  the  relation  in  which  Deb.  Smith 
had  stood  to  the  highwayman,  in  his  gratitude  for  her  devo 
tion  to  himself.  He  felt  an  invincible  repugnance  towards 
accepting  her  share  of  the  reward,  even  as  a  loan  ;  it  was 
"blood-money,"  and  to  touch  it  in  any  way  was  to  be 
stained  with  its  color ;  yet  how  should  he  put  aside  her 
kindness  without  inflicting  pain  upon  her  rude  nature, 
made  sensitive  at  last  by  abuse,  persecution,  and  remorse  ? 

His  face  spoke  in  advance  of  his  lips,  and  she  read  its 
language  with  wonderful  quickness. 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried,  "  I  mistrusted  how  it  'd  be  ;  you  don't 
want  to  say  it  right  out,  but  1  '11  say  it  for  you !  You  think 
the  money  'd  bring  you  no  luck,  —  maybe  a  downright 
curse, — and  how  can  I  say  it  won't  ?  Ha'n't  it  cursed  me  ? 
Sandy  said  it  would,  even  as  your'n  follered  him.  What 's 
it  good  for,  then  ?  It  burns  my  hands,  and  them  that 's 
clean,  won't  touch  it.  There,  you  damned  devil's-bait,  — 
my  arm  's  sore,  and  my  heart 's  sore,  wi'  the  weight  o'  you ! " 

With  these  words  she  flung  the  cloth,  with  its  bunch  of 
hard  silver  coins,  upon  the  threshing-floor.  It  clashed  like 
the  sound  of  chains.  Gilbert  saw  that  she  was  sorely  hurt. 
Tears  of  disappointment,  which  she  vainly  strove  to  hold 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  307 

back,  rose  to  her  eyes,  as  she  grimly  folded  her  arms,  and 
facing  him,  said,  — 

"  Now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Stay  here  for  the  present,  Deborah,"  he  answered. 

"  Eh  ?  A'n't  I  summonsed  ?  The  job  I  undertook  is  n't 
done  yet ;  the  wust  part 's  to  come  !  Maybe  they  '11  let  me 
off  from  putthV  the  rope  round  his  neck,  but  I  a'n't  sure  o' 
that ! " 

"  Then  come  to  me  afterwards,"  he  said,  gently,  striving 
to  allay  her  fierce,  self-accusing  mood.  "  Remember  that 
you  always  have  a  home  and  a  shelter  with  me,  whenever 
you  need  them.  And  I  '11  take  your  money,"  he  added, 
picking  it  up  from  the  floor,  —  "  take  it  in  trust  for  you, 
until  the  time  shall  come  when  you  will  be  willing  to  use  it 
Now  go  in  to  my  mother." 

The  woman  was  softened  and  consoled  by  his  words. 
But  she  still  hesitated. 

"  Maybe  she  won't  —  she  wont "  — 

"She  will!"  Gilbert  exclaimed.  "But  if  you  doubt, 
wait  here  until  I  come  back." 

Mary  Potter  earnestly  approved  of  his  decision,  to  take 
charge  of  the  money,  without  making  use  of  it.  A  strong, 
semi-superstitious  influence  had  so  entwined  itself  with  her 
fate,  that  she  even  shrank  from  help,  unless  it  came  in  an 
obviously  pure  and  honorable  form.  She  measured  the 
fulness  of  her  coming  justification  by  the  strict  integrity 
of  the  means  whereby  she  sought  to  deserve  it.  Deb. 
Smith,  in  her  new  light,  was  no  welcome  guest,  and  with 
all  her  coarse  male  strength,  she  was  still  woman  enouoh 

&  f  S 

to  guess  the  fact ;  but  Mary  Potter  resolved  to  think  only 
that  her  son  had  been  served  and  befriended.  Keeping 
that  service  steadily  before  her  eyes,  she  was  able  to  take 
the  outcast's  hand,  to  give  her  shelter  and  food,  and,  better 
still,  to  soothe  her  with  that  sweet,  unobtrusive  consolation 
which  only  a  woman  can  bestow,  —  which  steals  by  avenues 
of  benevolent  cunning  into  a  nature  that  would  repel  a 
direct  expression  of  sympathy. 


308  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

The  next  morning,  however,  Deb.  Smith  left  the  house, 
saying  to  Gilbert,  —  "  You  won't  see  me  ag'in,  without  it 
may  be  in  Court,  till  after  all 's  over  ;  and  then  I  may  have 
to  ask  you  to  hide  me  for  awhile.  Don't  mind  what  I  've 
said ;  I  've  no  larnin',  and  can't  always  make  out  the  rights 
o'  things,  —  and  sometimes  it  seems  there  's  two  Sandys,  a 
good  'un  and  a  bad  'un,  and  meanin'  to  punish  one,  I  've 
ruined  'em  both  !  " 

When  Gilbert  reached  Chester,  the  trial  was  just  about 
to  commence.  The  little  old  town  on  the  Delaware  was 
crowded  with  curious  strangers,  not  only  from  all  parts  of 
the  county,  but  even  from  Philadelphia  and  the  opposite 
New-Jersey  shore.  Every  one  who  had  been  summoned 
to  testify  was  beset  by  an  inquisitive  circle,  and  none  more 
so  than  himself.  The  Court-house  was  packed  to  suffoca 
tion  ;  and  the  Sheriff,  heavily  armed,  could  with  difficulty 
force  a  way  through  the  mass.  When  the  clanking  of  the 
prisoner's  irons  was  heard,  all  the  pushing,  struggling, 
murmuring  sounds  ceased  until  the  redoubtable  highway 
man  stood  in  the  dock. 

He  looked  around  the  Court-room  with  his  usual  defiant 
air,  and  no  one  observed  any  change  of  expression,  as  his 
eyes  passed  rapidly  over  Deb.  Smith's  face,  or  Gilbert  Pot 
ter's.  His  hard  red  complexion  was  already  beginning  to 
fade  in  confinement,  and  his  thick  hair,  formerly  close- 
cropped  for  the  convenience  of  disguises,  had  grown  out  in 
not  ungraceful  locks.  He  was  decidedly  a  handsome  man, 
and  his  bearing  seemed  to  show  that  he  was  conscious  of 
the  fact. 

The  trial  commenced.  To  the  astonishment  of  all,  and, 
as  it  was  afterwards  reported,  against  the  advice  of  his 
counsel,  the  prisoner  plead  guilty  to  some  of  the  specifica 
tions  of  the  indictment,  while  he  denied  others.  The  Col 
lectors  whom  he  had  plundered  were  then  called  to  the 
witness-stand,  but  the  public  seemed  to  manifest  less  inter 
est  in  the  loss  of  its  own  money,  than  in  the  few  cases 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  309 

where  private  individuals  had  suffered,  and  waited  impa 
tiently  for  the  latter. 

Deb.  Smith  had  so  long  borne  the  curious  gaze  of  hun 
dreds  of  eyes,  whenever  she  lifted  her  head,  that  when  her 
turn  came,  she  was  able  to  rise  and  walk  forward  without 
betraying  any  emotion.  Only  when  she  was  confronted 
with  Sandy  Flash,  and  he  met  her  with  a  wonderfully 
strange,  serious  smile,  did  she  shudder  for  a  moment  and 
hastily  turn  away.  She  gave  her  testimony  in  a  hard,  firm 
voice,  making  her  statements  as  brief  as  possible,  and  vol 
unteering  nothing  beyond  what  was  demanded. 

On  being  dismissed  from  the  stand,  she  appeared  to  hes 
itate.  Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  faces  of  the  lawyers, 
the  judges,  and  the  jurymen,  as  if  with  a  dumb  appeal,  but 
she  did  not  speak.  Then  she  turned  towards  the  prisoner, 
and  some  words  passed  between  them,  which,  in  the  gen 
eral  movement  of  curiosity,  were  only  heard  by  the  two  or 
three  persons  who  stood  nearest. 

"  Sandy ! "  she  was  reported  to  have  said,  "  I  could  n't 
help  myself;  take  the  curse  off  o'  me  ! " 

"  Deb.,  it 's  too  late,"  he  answered.  "  It 's  begun  to  work, 
and  it  '11  work  itself  out !  " 

Gilbert  noticed  the  feeling  of  hostility  with  which  Deb. 
Smith  was  regarded  by  the  spectators,  —  a  feeling  that 
threatened  to  manifest  itself  in  some  violent  way,  when  the 
restraints  of  the  place  should  be  removed.  He  therefore 
took  advantage  of  the  great  interest  with  which  his  own 
testimony  was  heard,  to  present  her  character  in  the  light 
which  her  services  to  him  shed  upon  it.  This  was  a  new 
phase  of  the  story,  and  produced  a  general  movement  of 
surprise.  Sandy  Flash,  it  was  noticed,  sitting  with  his  fet 
tered  hands  upon  the  rail  before  him,  leaned  forward  and 
listened  intently,  while  an  unusual  flush  deepened  upon  his 
cheeks. 

The  statements,  though  not  strictly  in  evidence,  were 
permitted  by  the  Court,  and  they  produced  the  effect  which 


310  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Gilbert    intended.      The   excitement   reached  its  height 

o 

when  Deb.  Smith,  ignorant  of  rule,  suddenly  rose  and  cried 
out, — 

"  It 's  true  as  Gospel,  every  word  of  it !  Sandy,  do  you 
hear?" 

She  was  removed  by  the  constable,  but  the  people,  as 
they  made  way,  uttered  no  word  of  threat  or  insult.  On 
the  contrary,  many  eyes  rested  on  her  hard,  violent, 
wretched  face  with  an  expression  of  very  genuine  compas 
sion. 

The  trial  took  its  course,  and  terminated  with  the  result 
which  everybody  —  even  the  prisoner  himself — knew  to 
be  inevitable.  He  was  pronounced  guilty,  and  duly  sen 
tenced  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  was  dead. 

Gilbert  employed  the  time  which  he  could  spare  from 
his  attendance  at  the  Court,  in  endeavoring  to  make  a  new 
loan,  but  with  no  positive  success.  The  most  he  accom 
plished  was  an  agreement,  on  the  part  of  his  creditor,  that 
the  foreclosure  might  be  delayed  two  or  three  weeks, 
provided  there  was  a  good  prospect  of  the  money  being 
obtained.  In  ordinary  times  he  would  have  had  no  diffi 
culty  ;  but,  as  Mr.  Trainer  had  written,  the  speculation  in 
western  lands  had  seized  upon  capitalists,  and  the  amount 
of  money  for  permanent  investment  was  already  greatly 
diminished. 

He  was  preparing  to  return  home,  when  Chaifey,  the 
constable,  came  to  him  with  a  message  from  Sandy  Flash. 
The  latter  begged  for  an  interview,  and  both  Judge  and 
Sheriff  were  anxious  that  Gilbert  should  comply  with  his 
wishes,  in  the  hope  that  a  full  and  complete  confession 
might  be  obtained.  It  was  evident  that  the  highwayman 
had  accomplices,  but  he  steadfastly  refused  to  name  them, 
even  with  the  prospect  of  having  his  sentence  commuted 
to  imprisonment  for  life. 

Gilbert  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  There  were  doubts 
of  his  own  to  be  solved,  —  questions  to  be  asked,  which 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  311 

Sandy  Flash  could  alone  answer.  He  followed  the  con 
stable  to  the  gloomy,  high-walled  jail-building,  and  was 
promptly  admitted  by  the  Sheriff  into  the  low,  dark,  heavily 
barred  cell,  wherein  the  prisoner  sat  upon  a  wooden  stool, 
the  links  of  his  leg-fetters  passed  through  a  ring  in  the 
floor. 

Sandy  Flash  lifted  his  face  to  the  light,  and  grinned,  but 
not  with  his  old,  mocking  expression.  He  stretched  out 
his  hand  which  Gilbert  took,  —  hard  and  cold  as  the  rat 
tling  chain  at  his  wrist.  Then,  seating  himself  with  a 
clash  upon  the  floor,  he  pushed  the  stool  towards  his  vis 
itor,  and  said,  — 

"  Set  down,  Potter.  Limited  accommodations,  you  see. 
Sheriff,  you  need  n't  wait ;  it 's  private  business." 

The  Sheriff  locked  the  iron  door  behind  him,  and  they 
were  alone. 

"  Potter,"  the  highwayman  began,  "  you  see  I  'm  trapped 
and  done  for,  and  all,  it  seems,  on  account  o'  that  little 
affair  o'  your'n.  You  won't  think  it  means  much,  now, 
when  I  say  I  was  in  the  wrong  there  ;  but  I  swear  I  was  ! 
I  had  no  particular  spite  ag'in  Barton,  but  he  's  a  swell, 
and  I  like  to  take  such  fellows  down  ;  and  I  was  dead  sure 
you  were  carryin'  his  money,  as  you  promised  to." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,"  Gilbert  interrupted ;  "  how  did 
you  know  I  promised  to  take  money  for  him  ?  " 

"  I  knowed  it,  that 's  enough  ;  I  can  give  you,  word  for 
word,  what  both  o'  you  said,  if  you  doubt  me." 

"Then,  as  I  thought,  it  was  Barton  himself!"  Gilbert 
cried. 

Sandy  Flash  burst  into  a  roaring  laugh.  "Him  !  Ah- 
ha  !  you  think  we  go  snacks,  eh  ?  Do  I  look  like  a  fool  ? 
Barton  'd  give  his  eye-teeth  to  put  the  halter  round  my 
neck  with  his  own  hands  !  No,  no,  young  man  ;  I  have 
ways  and  ways  o'  learnin'  things  that  you  nor  him  '11  never 
guess." 

His  manner,  even  more  than  his  words,  convinced  Gil- 


312  THE  STORY  Of .  KEXNETT. 

bert.  Barton  was  absolved,  but  the  mystery  remained. 
"  You  won't  deny  that  you  have  friends  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Maybe,"  Sandy  replied,  in  a  short,  rough  tone.  "  That 's 
nothin'  to  you,"  he  continued ;  "  but  what  I  've  got  to  say  is, 
whether  or  no  you  're  a  friend  to  Deb.,  she  thinks  you  are. 
Do  you  mean  to  look  after  her,  once't  in  a  while,  or  are 
you  one  o'  them  that  forgits  a  good  turn  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  her,"  said  Gilbert,  "  that  she  shall  always 
have  a  home  and  a  shelter  in  my  house.  If  it 's  any  satis 
faction  to  you,  here  's  my  hand  on  it !  " 

"  I  believe  you,  Potter.  Deb.  's  done  ill  by  me ;  she 
should  n't  ha'  bullied  me  when  I  was  sore  and  tetchy,  and 
fagged  out  with  your  curst  huntin'  of  me  up  and  down ! 
But  I  '11  do  that  much  for  her  and  for  you.  Here ;  bend 
your  head  down  ;  I  've  got  to  whisper." 

Gilbert  leaned  his  ear  to  the  highwayman's  mouth. 

"  You  '11  only  tell  her,  you  understand  ?  " 

Gilbert  assented. 

"  Say  to  her  these  words,  —  don't  forgit  a  single  one  of 
'em  !  —  Thirty  steps  from  the  place  she  knowed  about,  be 
hind  the  two  big  chestnut-trees,  goin'  towards  the  first 
cedar,  and  a  forked  sassyfrack  growin'  right  over  it.  What 
she  finds,  is  your'n." 

"  Sandy  !  "  Gilbert  exclaimed,  starting  from  his  listening 
posture. 

"  Hush,  I  say  !  You  know  what  I  mean  her  to  do,  — 
give  you  your  money  back.  I  took  a  curse  with  it,  as  you 
said.  Maybe  that 's  off  o'  me,  now  !  " 

"  It  is  !  "  said  Gilbert,  in  a  low  tone,  "  and  forgiveness  — 
mine  and  my  mother's  —  in  the  place  of  it.  Have  you 
any  "  —  he  hesitated  to  say  the  words  —  "  any  last  mes 
sages,  to  her  or  anybody  else,  or  anything  you  would  like 
to  have  done  ?  " 

"  Thank  ye,  no  !  —  unless  Deb.  can  find  my  black  hair 
and  whiskers.  Then  you  may  give  'em  to  Barton,  with 
my  dutiful  service." 


THE   STORY   OF  KENXETT.  313 

He  laughed  at  the  idea,  until  his  chains  rattled. 

Gilbert's  mind  was  haunted  with  the  other  and  darker 
doubt,  and  he  resolved,  in  this  last  interview,  to  secure 
himself  against  its  recurrence.  In  such  an  hour  he  could 
trust  the  prisoner's  words. 

"  Sandy,"  he  asked,  "  have  you  any  children  ?  " 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge  ;  and  I  'm  glad  of  it." 

"  You  must  know,"  Gilbert  continued,  "  what  the  people 
say  about  my  birth.  My  mother  is  bound  from  telling 
me  who  my  father  was,  and  I  dare  not  ask  her  any  ques 
tions.  Did  you  ever  happen  to  know  her,  in  your  younger 
days,  or  can  you  remember  anything  that  will  help  me  to 
discover  his  name  ?  " 

The  highwayman  sat  silent,  meditating,  and  Gilbert  felt 
that  his  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  painfully  fast,  as  he 
waited  for  the  answer. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sandy,  at  last,  "  I  did  know  Mary  Potter 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  she  knowed  me,  under  another 
name.  I  may  say  I  liked  her,  too,  in  a  boy's  way,  but  she 
was  older  by  three  or  four  years,  and  never  thought  o' 
lookin'  at  me.  But  I  can't  remember  anything  more ;  if 
I  was  out  o'  this,  I  'd  soon  find  out  for  you  !  " 

He  looked  up  with  an  eager,  questioning  glance,  which 
Gilbert  totally  misunderstood. 

"  What  was  your  other  name  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  barely 
audible  voice. 

"  I  dunno  as  I  need  tell  it,"  Sandy  answered  ;  "  what  'd 
be  the  good  ?  There  's  some  yet  livin',  o'  the  same  name, 
and  they  would  n't  thank  me." 

"  Sandy  !  "  Gilbert  cried  desperately,  "  answer  this  one 
question,  —  don't  go  out  of  the  world  with  a  false  word  in 
your  mouth  !  —  You  are  not  my  father  ?  " 

The  highwayman  looked  at  him  a  moment,  in  blank 
amazement.  a  No,  so  help  me  God  !  "  he  then  said. 

Gilbert's  face  brightened  so  suddenly  and  vividly  that 
Sandy  muttered  to  himself,  —  "I  never  thought  I  was  that 
bad." 


314  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  I  hear  the  Sheriff  at  the  outside  gate,"  he  whispered 
again.  "  Don't  forgit  —  thirty  steps  from  the  place  she 
knowed  about  —  behind  the  two  big  chestnut-trees,  goin' 
towards  the  first  cedar  —  and  a  forked  sassyfrack  growin* 
right  over  it !  Good-bye,  and  good-luck  to  the  whole  o' 
your  life ! " 

The  two  clasped  hands  with  a  warmth  and  earnestness 
which  surprised  the  Sheriff.  Then  Gilbert  went  out  from 
his  old  antagonist. 

That  night  Sandy  Flash  made  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  the  jail,  and  very  nearly  succeeded.  It  appeared, 
from  some  mysterious  words  which  he  afterwards  let  fall, 
and  which  Gilbert  alone  could  have  understood,  that  he 
had  a  superstitious  belief  that  something  he  had  done 
would  bring  him  a  new  turn  of  fortune.  The  only  result 
of  the  attempt  was  to  hasten  his  execution.  Within  ten 
days  from  that  time  he  was  transformed  from  a  living 
terror  into  a  romantic  name. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  315 


CHAPTER   XXVn. 

GILBERT    INDEPENDENT. 

GILBERT  POTTER  felt  such  an  implicit  trust  in  Sandy 
Flash's  promise  of  restitution,  that,  before  leaving  Chester, 
he  announced  the  forthcoming  payment  of  the  mortgage 
to  its  holder.  His  homeward  ride  was  like  a  triumphal 
march,  to  which  his  heart  beat  the  music.  The  chill  March 
winds  turned  into  May-breezes  as  they  touched  him ;  the 
brown  meadows  were  quick  with  ambushed  bloom.  Within 
three  or  four  months  his  life  had  touched  such  extremes 
of  experience,  that  the  fate  yet  to  come  seemed  to  evolve 
itself  speedily  and  naturally  from  that  which  was  over  and 
gone.  Only  one  obstacle  yet  remained  in  his  path,  —  his 
mother's  secret.  Towards  that  he  was  powerless  ;  to  meet 
all  others  he  was  brimming  with  strength  and  courage. 

Mary  Potter  recognized,  even  more  keenly  and  with 
profounder  faith  than  her  son,  the  guidance  of  some  in 
scrutable  Power.  She  did  not  dare  to  express  so  uncer 
tain  a  hope,  but  something  in  her  heart  whispered  that  the 
day  of  her  own  deliverance  was  not  far  off,  and  she  took 
strength  from  it. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  before  Deb.  Smith  made  her  ap 
pearance.  Gilbert,  in  the  mean  time,  had  visited  her  cabin 
on  the  AVoodrow  farm,  to  find  it  deserted,  and  he  was  burn 
ing  with  impatience  to  secure,  through  her,  the  restoration 
of  his  independence.  He  would  not  announce  his  changed 
prospects,  even  to  Martha  Deane,  until  they  were  put 
beyond  further  risk.  The  money  once  in  his  hands,  he 
determined  to  carry  it  to  Chester  without  loss  of  time. 


SI 6  THE   STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"When  Deb.  arrived,  she  had  a  weary,  hunted  look,  but 
she  was  unusually  grave  and  silent,  and  avoided  further 
reference  to  the  late  tragical  episode  in  her  life.  Never 
theless,  Gilbert  led  her  aside  and  narrated  to  her  the  par 
ticulars  of  his  interview  with  Sandy  Flash.  Perhaps  he 
softened,  with  pardonable  equivocation,  the  latter's  words 
in  regard  to  her  ;  perhaps  he  conveyed  a  sense  of  for 
giveness  which  had  not  been  expressed;  for  Deb.  more 
than  once  drew  the  corners  of  her  hard  palms  across  her 
eyes.  When  he  gave  the  marks  by  which  she  was  to  rec 
ognize  a  certain  spot,  she  exclaimed,  — 

"  It  was  hid  the  night  I  dreamt  of  him  !  I  knowed  he 
must  ha'  been  nigh,  by  that  token.  O,  Mr.  Gilbert,  he 
said  true  !  I  know  the  place  ;  it 's  not  so  far  away;  this 
very  night  you  '11  have  y'r  money  back  !  " 

After  it  was  dark  she  set  out,  ^with  a  spade  upon  her 
shoulder,  forbidding  him  to  follow,  or  even  to  look  after 
her.  Both  mother  and  son  were  too  excited  to  sleep. 
They  sat  by  the  kitchen-fire,  with  one  absorbing  thought 
in  their  minds,  and  speech  presently  became  easier  than 
silence. 

"  Mother,"  said  Gilbert,  "  when  —  I  mean  if —  she  brings 
the  money,  all  that  has  happened  will  have  been  for  good. 
It  has  proved  to  us  that  we  have  true  friends  (and  I  count 
my  Roger  among  them),  and  I  think  that  our  indepen 
dence  will  be  worth  all  the  more,  since  we  came  so  nigh 
losing  it  again." 

"  Ay,  my  boy,"  she  replied ;  "  I  was  over-hasty,  and  have 
been  lessoned.  When  I  bend  my  mind  to  submit,  I  make 
more  headway  than  when  I  try  to  take  the  Lord's  work 
into  my  own  hands.  I  'm  fearsome  still,  but  it  seems 
there  's  a  light  coming  from  somewhere,  —  I  don't  know 
where." 

"  Do  you  feel  that  way,  mother  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Do 
you  think  —  let  me  mention  it  this  once  !  —  that  the  day 
is  near  when  you  will  be  free  to  speak  ?  Will  there  be 


THE  STORY   OF  KEXNETT.  317 

anything  more  you  can  tell  me,  when  we  stand  free  upon 
our  own  property  ?  " 

Mary  Potter  looked  upon  his  bright,  wistful,  anxious 
face,  and  sighed.  "  I  can't  tell  —  I  can't  tell,"  she  said. 
"Ah,  my  boy,  you  would  understand  it,  if  I  dared  say  one 
thing,  but  that  might  lead  you  to  guess  what  must  n't  be 
told ;  and  I  will  be  faithful  to  the  spirit  as  well  as  the 
letter.  It  must  come  soon,  but  nothing  you  or  I  can  do 
would  hasten  it  a  minute." 

"One  word  more,  mother,"  he  persisted,  "will  our  in 
dependence  be  no  help  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  great  help,"  she  answered,  "  or,  maybe,  a  great  com 
fort  would  be  the  true  word.  Without  it,  I  might  be 
tempted  to  —  but  see,  Gilbert,  how  can  I  talk?  Every 
thing  you  say  pulls  at  the  one  thing  that  cuts  my  mouth 
like  a  knife,  because  it 's  shut  tight  on  it !  And  the  more 
because  I  owe  it  to  you,  —  because  I  'm  held  back  from 
my  duty  to  my  child,  —  maybe,  every  day  putting  a  fresh 
sorrow  into  his  heart !  Oh,  it 's  not  easy,  Gilbert ;  it  don't 
grow  lighter  from  use,  only  my  faith  is  the  stronger  and 
surer,  and  that  helps  me  to  bear  it." 

"  Mother,  I  meant  never  to  have  spoken  of  this  again," 
he  said.  "  But  you  're  mistaken ;  it  is  no  sorrow  ;  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  a  light  heart,  until  you  told  me 
your  trouble,  and  the  question  came  to  my  mouth  to-night 
because  I  shall  soon  feel  strong  in  my  own  right  as  a  man, 
and  able  to  do  more  than  you  might  guess.  If,  as  you 
say,  no  man  can  help  you,  I  will  wait  and  be  patient  with 
you." 

"  That 's  all  we  can  do  now,  my  child.  I  was  n't  re 
proaching  you  for  speaking,  for  you  Ve  held  your  peace 
a  long  while,  when  I  know  you  've  been  fretting  ;  but  this 
is  n't  one  of  the  troubles  that 's  lightened  by  speech,  be 
cause  all  talking  must  go  around  the  outside,  and  never 
touch  the  thing  itself." 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  and  gazed  for  a  long  time  into 
the  fire,  without  speaking. 


318  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Mary  Potter  watched  his  face,  in  the  wavering  light  of 
the  flame.  She  marked  the  growing  decision  of  the  feat 
ures,  the  forward,  fearless  glance  of  the  large,  deep-set  eye, 
the  fuller  firmness  and  sweetness  of  the  mouth,  and  the 
general  expression,  not  only  of  self-reliance,  but  of  author 
ity,  which  was  spread  over  the  entire  countenance.  Both 
her  pride  in  her  son,  and  her  respect  for  him,  increased  as 
she  gazed.  Heretofore,  she  had  rather  considered  her 
secret  as  her  own  property,  her  right  to  which  he  should 
not  question ;  but  now  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  forced  to 
withhold  something  that  of  right  belonged  to  him.  Yet 
no  thought  that  the  mysterous  obligation  might  be  broken 
ever  entered  her  mind. 

Gilbert  was  thinking  of  Martha  Deane.  He  had  passed 
that  first  timidity  of  love  which  shrinks  from  the  knowledge 
of  others,  and  longed  to  tell  his  mother  what  noble  fidelity 
and  courage  Martha  had  exhibited.  Only  the  recollection 
of  the  fearful  swoon  into  which  she  had  fallen  bound  his 
tongue ;  he  felt  that  the  first  return  to  the  subject  must 
come  from  her.  She  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  seemed  to 
sleep  ;  he  rose  from  time  to  time,  went  out  into  the  lane 
and  listened,  —  and  so  the  hours  passed  away. 

Towards  midnight  a  heavy  step  was  heard,  and  Deb. 
Smith,  hot,  panting,  her  arms  daubed  with  earth,  and  a  wild 
light  in  her  eyes,  entered  the  kitchen.  With  one  hand  she 
grasped  the  ends  of  her  strong  tow-linen  apron,  with  the 
other  she  still  shouldered  the  spade.  She  knelt  upon  the 
floor  between  the  two,  set  the  apron  in  the  light  of  the  fire, 
unrolled  the  end  of  a  leathern  saddle-bag,  and  disclosed 
the  recovered  treasure. 

«  See  if  it 's  all  right ! "  she  said. 

Mary  Potter  and  Gilbert  bent  over  the  rolls  and  counted 
them.  It  was  the  entire  sum,  untouched. 

"  Have  you  got  a  sup  o'  whiskey,  Mr.  Gilbert  ? "  Deb. 
Smith  asked.  "  Ugh !  I  'm  hot  and  out  o'  breath,  and  yet 
I  feel  mortal  cold.  There  was  a  screech-owl  hootin'  in  the 


THE  STORY   OF  KENXETT.  319 

cedar  ;  and  I  dtmno  how  't  is,  but  there  always  seems  to  be 
things  around,  where  money  's  buried.  You  can't  see  'em, 
but  you  hear  'em.  I  thought  I  'd  ha'  dropped  when  I 
turned  up  the  sassyfrack  bush,  and  got  hold  on  it ;  and  all 
the  way  back  I  feared  a  big  arm  'd  come  out  o'  every  fence- 
corner,  and  snatch  it  from  me  !  " l 

Mary  Potter  set  the  kettle  on  the  fire,  and  Deb.  Smith 
was  soon  refreshed  with  a  glass  of  hot  grog.  Then  she 
lighted  her  pipe  and  watched  the  two  as  they  made  prepa 
rations  for  the  journey  to  Chester  on  the  morrow,  now  and 
then  nodding  her  head  with  an  expression  which  chased 
away  the  haggard  sorrow  from  her  features. 

This  time  the  journey  was  performed  without  incident. 
The  road  was  safe,  the  skies  were  propitious,  and  Gilbert 
Potter  returned  from  Chester  an  independent  man,  with 
the  redeemed  mortgage  in  his  pocket.  His  first  care  was 
to  assure  his  mother  of  the  joyous  fact ;  his  next  to  seek 
Martha  Deane,  and  consult  with  her  about  their  brighten 
ing  future. 

On  the  way  to  Kennett  Square,  he  fell  in  with  Mark, 
who  was  radiant  with  the  promise  of  Richard  Rudd's  new 
house,  secured  to  him  by  the  shrewd  assistance  of  Miss 
Betsy  Lavender. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Gilbert,"  said  he;  "don't  you 
think  I  might  as  well  speak  to  Daddy  Fairthorn  about 
Sally  ?  I  'm  gettin'  into  good  business  now,  and  I  guess 
th'  old  folks  might  spare  her  pretty  soon." 

"  The  sooner,  Mark,  the  better  for  you  ;  and  you  can 
buy  the  wedding-suit  at  once,  for  I  have  your  hundred  dol 
lars  ready." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  wont  use  it,  Gilbert  ?  " 

Who  so   delighted  as  Mark,  when  he  heard   Gilbert's 

1  It  does  not  seem  to  have  been  generally  known  in  the  neighborhood 
that  the  money  was  unearthed.  A  tradition  of  that  and  other  treasure 
buried  by  Sandy  Fla=h,  is  still  kept  alive;  and  during  the  past  ten  years 
two  midnight  attempts  have  been  made  to  find  it,  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  the  spot  indicated  in  the  narrative. 


320  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

unexpected  story  ?  "  Oh,  glory  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  the 
tide  's  turnin',  old  fellow !  What  '11  you  bet  you  're  not 
married  before  I  am  ?  It 's  got  all  over  the  country  that 
you  and  Martha  are  engaged,  and  that  the  Doctor  's  full  o' 
gall  and  wormwood  about  it ;  I  hear  it  wherever  I  go,  and 
there  's  more  for  you  than  there  is  against  you,  I  tell  you 
that!" 

The  fact  was  as  Mark  had  stated.  No  one  was  posi 
tively  known  to  have  spread  the  rumor,  but  it  was  afloat 
and  generally  believed.  The  result  was  to  invest  Gilbert 
with  a  fresh  interest.  His  courage  in  confronting  Sandy 
Flash,  his  robbery,  his  wonderful  preservation  from  death, 
and  his  singular  connection,  through  Deb.  Smith,  with 
Sandy  Flash's  capture,  had  thrown  a  romantic  halo  around 
his  name,  which  was  now  softly  brightened  by  the  report 
of  his  love.  The  stain  of  his  birth  and  the  uncertainty 
of  his  parentage  did  not  lessen  this  interest,  but  rather 
increased  it ;  and  as  any  man  who  is  much  talked  about  in 
a  country  community  will  speedily  find  two  parties  created, 
one  enthusiastically  admiring,  the  other  contemptuously 
depreciating  him,  so  now  it  happened  in  this  case. 

The  admirers,  however,  were  in  a  large  majority,  and 
they  possessed  a  great  advantage  over  the  detractors,  being 
supported  by  a  multitude  of  facts,  while  the  latter  were 
unable  to  point  to  any  act  of  Gilbert  Potter's  life  that  was 
not  upright  and  honorable.  Even  his  love  of  Martha 
Deane  was  shorn  of  its  presumption  by  her  reciprocal  af 
fection.  The  rumor  that  she  had  openly  defied  her  father's 
will  created  great  sympathy,  for  herself  and  for  Gilbert, 
among  the  young  people  of  both  sexes,  —  a  sympathy 
which  frequently  was  made  manifest  to  Dr.  Deane,  and 
annoyed  him  not  a  little.  His  stubborn  opposition  to  his 
daughter's  attachment  increased,  in  proportion  as  his  power 
to  prevent  it  diminished. 

We  may  therefore  conceive  his  sensations  when  Gilbert 
Potter  himself  boldly  entered  his  presence.  The  latter, 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  321 

after  Mark's  description,  very  imperfect  though  it  was,  of 
Martha's  courageous  assertion  of  the  rights  of  her  heart, 
had  swiftly  made  up  his  mind  to  stand  beside  her  in  the 
struggle,  with  equal  firmness  and  equal  pride.  He  would 
openly  seek  an  interview  with  her,  and  if  he  should  find 
her  father  at  home,  as  was  probable  at  that  hour,  would 
frankly  and  respectfully  acknowledge  his  love,  and  defend 
it  against  any  attack. 

On  entering  the  room,  he  quietly  stepped  forward  with 
extended  hand,  and  saluted  the  Doctor,  who  was  so  taken 
by  surprise  that  he  mechanically  answered  the  greeting 
before  he  could  reflect  what  manner  to  adopt  towards  the 
unwelcome  visitor. 

"  What  might  be  thy  business  with  me  ? "  he  asked, 
stiffly,  recovering  from  the  first  shock. 

"I  called  to  see  Martha,"  Gilbert  answered.  "I  have 
some  news  which  she  will  be  glad  to  hear." 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  his  sternest  face 
and  voice,  "  I  may  as  well  come  to  the  point  with  thee,  at 
once.  If  thee  had  had  decency  enough  to  apply  to  me  be 
fore  speaking  thy  mind  to  Martha,  it  would  have  saved  us 
all  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  could  have  told  thee  then,  as 
I  tell  thee  now,  that  I  will  never  consent  to  her  marriage 
with  thee.  Thee  must  give  up  all  thought  of  such  a 
thing." 

"  I  will  do  so,"  Gilbert  replied,  "  when  Martha  tells  me 
with  her  own  mouth  that  such  is  her  will.  I  am  not  one 
of  the  men  who  manage  their  hearts  according  to  circum- 

^  O 

stances.  I  wish,  indeed,  I  were  more  worthy  of  Martha ; 
but  I  am  trying  to  deserve  her,  and  I  know  no  better  way 
than  to  be  faithful  as  she  is  faithful.  I  mean  no  disrespect 
to  you.  Dr.  Deane.  You  are  her  father ;  you  have  every 
right  to  care  for  her  happiness,  and  I  will  admit  that  you 
honestly  think  I  am  not  the  man  who  could  make  her 
happy.  All  I  ask  is,  that  you  should  wait  a  little  and  know 
me  better.  Martha  and  I  have  both  decided  that  we  must 
21 


322  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

wait,  and  there  is  time  enough  for  you  to  watch  my  con 
duct,  examine  my  character,  and  perhaps  come  to  a  more 
favorable  judgment  of  me." 

Dr.  Deane  saw  that  it  would  be  harder  to  deal  with 
Gilbert  Potter  than  he  had  imagined.  The  young  man 
stood  before  him  so  honestly  and  fearlessly,  meeting  his 
angry  gaze  with  such  calm,  frank  eyes,  and  braving  his 
despotic  will  with  such  a  modest,  respectful  opposal,  that 
he  was  forced  to  withdraw  from  his  haughty  position,  and 
to  set  forth  the  same  reasons  which  he  had  presented  to 
his  daughter. 

O 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  tone  slightly  less  arrogant,  "  that 
thee  is  sensible,  in  some  respects,  and  therefore  I  put  the 
case  to  thy  understanding.  It 's  too  plain  to  be  argued. 
Martha  is  a  rich  bait  for  a  poor  man,  and  perhaps  I 
ought  n't  to  wonder  —  knowing  the  heart  of  man  as  I  do 
—  that  thee  was  tempted  to  turn  her  head  to  favor  thee  ; 
but  the  money  is  not  yet  hers,  and  I,  as  her  father,  can 
never  allow  that  thy  poverty  shall  stand  for  three  years 
between  her  and  some  honorable  man  to  whom  her  money 
would  be  no  temptation  !  Why,  if  all  I  hear  be  true, 
thee  has  n't  even  any  certain  roof  to  shelter  a  wife ; 
thy  property,  such  as  it  is,  may  be  taken  out  of  thy 
hands ! " 

Gilbert  could  not  calmly  hear  these  insinuations.  All 
his  independent  pride  of  character  was  aroused ;  a  dark 
flush  came  into  his  face,  the  blood  was  pulsing  hotly  through 
his  veins,  and  indignant  speech  was  rising  to  his  lips,  when 
the  inner  door  unexpectedly  opened,  and  Martha  entered 
the  room. 

She  instantly  guessed  what  was  taking  place,  and  sum 
moned  up  all  her  self-possession,  to  stand  by  Gilbert,  with 
out  increasing  her  father's  exasperation.  To  the  former, 
her  apparition  was  like  oil  on  troubled  waters.  His  quick 
blood  struck  into  warm  channels  of  joy,  as  he  met  her 
glowing  eyes,  and  felt  the  throb  of  her  soft,  elastic  palm 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  323 

against  his  own.     Dr.  Deane  set  his  teeth,  drew  up  his 
under  lip,  and  handled  his  cane  with  restless  fingers. 

"  Father,"  said  Martha,  "  if  you  are  talking  of  me,  it  is 
better  that  I  should  be  present.  I  am  sure  there  is  noth 
ing  that  either  thee  or  Gilbert  would  wish  to  conceal  from 
me." 

"  No,  Martha  ! "    Gilbert  exclaimed ;  "  I  came  to  bring 
you  good  news.     The  mortgage  on  my  farm  is  lifted,  and  I 
am  an  independent  man  !  " 
t     "  Without  my  help  !     Does  thee  hear  that,  father  ?  " 

Gilbert  did  not  understand  her  remark ;  without  heed 
ing  it,  he  continued,  — 

<;  Sandy  Flash,  after  his  sentence,  sent  for  me  and  told 
me  where  the  money  he  took  from  me  was  to  be  found.  I 
carried  it  to  Chester,  and  have  paid  off  all  my  remaining 
debt.  Martha,  your  father  has  just  charged  me  with  being 
tempted  by  your  property.  I  say  to  you,  in  his  presence, 
put  it  beyond  my  reach,  —  give  it  away,  forfeit  the  condi 
tions  of  the  legacy,  —  let  me  show  truly  whether  I  ever 
thought  of  money  in  seeking  you  !  " 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  gently,  "  father  does  n't  yet  know 
you  as  I  clo.  Others  will  no  doubt  say  the  same  thing,  and 
we  must  both  make  up  our  minds  to  have  it  said ;  yet  I 
cannot,  for  that,  relinquish  what  is  mine  of  right.  We  are 
not  called  upon  to  sacrifice  to  the  mistaken  opinions  of 
men ;  your  life  and  mine  will  show,  and  manifest  to  others 
in  time,  whether  it  is  a  selfish  tie  that  binds  us  together." 

"  Martha ! "  Dr.  Deane  exclaimed,  feeling  that  he  should 
lose  ground,  unless  this  turn  of  the  conversation  were  in 
terrupted  ;  "  thee  compels  me  to  show  thee  how  impossible 
the  thing  is,  even  if  this  man  were  of  the  richest..  Admit 
ting  that  he  is  able  to  support  a  family,  admitting  that  thee 
waits  three  years,  comes  into  thy  property,  and  is  still  of  a 
mind  to  marry  him  against  my  will,  can  thee  forget  —  or 
has  he  so  little  consideration  for  thee  as  to  forget  —  that 
he  bears  his  mother's  name  ?  " 


324  THE   STORY  OF   KEXNETT. 

"  Father ! " 

"  Let  me  speak,  Martha,"  said  Gilbert,  lifting  his  head, 
which  had  drooped  for  a  moment.  His  voice  was  earnest 
and  sorrowful,  yet  firm.  "  It  is  true  that  I  bear  my 
mother's  name.  It  is  the  name  of  a  good,  an  honest,  an 
honorable,  and  a  God-fearing  woman.  I  wish  I  could  be 
certain  that  the  name  which  legally  belongs  to  me  will  be 
as  honorable  and  as  welcome.  But  Martha  knows,  and 
you,  her  father,  have  a  right  to  know,  that  I  shall  have 
another.  I  have  not  been  inconsiderate.  I  trampled 
down  my  love  for  her,  as  long  as  I  believed  it  would  bring 
disgrace.  I  will  not  say  that  now,  knowing  her  as  I  do, 
I  could  ever  give  her  up,  even  if  the  disgrace  was  not 
removed,"  — 

"  Thank  you,  Gilbert !  "  Martha  interrupted. 

"  But  there  is  none,  Dr.  Deane,"  he  continued,  "  and 
when  the  time  comes,  my  birth  will  be  shown  to  be  as  hon 
orable  as  your  own,  or  Mark's." 

Dr.  Deane  was  strangely  excited  at  these  words.  His 
face  colored,  and  he  darted  a  piercing,  suspicious  glance  at 
Gilbert.  The  latter,  however,  stood  quietly  before  him, 
too  possessed  by  what  he  had  said  to  notice  the  Doctor's 
peculiar  expression ;  but  it  returned  to  his  memory  after 
wards. 

"  Why,"  the  Doctor  at  last  stammered,  "  I  never  heard 
of  this  before  !  " 

"  No,"  Gilbert  answered,  "  and  I  must  ask  of  you  not  to 
mention  it  further,  at  present.  I  must  beg  you  to  be 
patient  until  my  mother  is  able  to  declare  the  truth." 

"  What  keeps  her  from  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Gilbert  sadly  replied. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  as  sternly  as  ever,  "  this  is 
rather  a  likely  story  !  If  Potter  is  n't  thy  name,  what  is  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  Gilbert  repeated. 

"  No ;  nor  no  one  else  !  How  dare  thee  address  my 
daughter,  —  talk  of  marriage  with  her,  —  when  thee  don't 


THE  STORY   OF  KENXETT.  325 

know  thy  real  name?  What  name  would  thee  offer  to 
her  in  exchange  for  her  own  ?  Young  man,  I  don't  believe 
thee!" 

"I  do,"  said  Martha,  rising  and  moving  to  Gilbert's 
side. 

'•  Martha,  go  to  thy  room  !  "  the  Doctor  cried.  "  And  as 
for  thee,  Gilbert  Potter,  or  Gilbert  Anything,  I  tell  thee, 
once  and  for  all,  never  speak  of  this  thing  again,  —  at  least, 
until  thee  can  show  a  le^al  name  and  an  honorable  birth  ! 

O 

Thee  has  not  prejudiced  me  in  thy  favor  by  thy  devices, 
and  it  stands  to  reason  that  I  should  forbid  thee  to  see  my 
daughter,  —  to  enter  my  doors  !  " 

"  Dr.  Deane,"  said  Gilbert,  with  sad  yet  inflexible  dig 
nity,  "  it  is  impossible,  after  what  you  have  said,  that  I 
should  seek  to  enter  your  door,  until  my  words  are  proved 
true,  and  I  ana  justified  in  your  eyes.  The  day  may  come 
sooner  than  you  think.  But  I  will  do  nothing  secretly  ;  I 
won't  promise  anything  to  you  that  I  can't  promise  to  my 
self;  and  so  I  tell  you,  honestly  and  above-board,  that 
while  I  shall  not  ask  Martha  to  share  my  life  until  I  can 
offer  her  my  true  name,  I  must  see  her  from  time  to  time. 
I  'm  not  fairly  called  upon  to  give  up  that." 

"  Xo,  Gilbert,"  said  Martha,  who  had  not  yet  moved  from 
her  place  by  his  side,  "  it  is  as  necessary  to  my  happiness 
as  to  yours.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  come  here  again  ;  you 
cannot,  and  must  not,  even  for  my  sake ;  but  when  I  need 
your  counsel  and  your  sympathy,  and  there  is  no  other 
way  left.  I  will  go  to  you." 

"  Martha ! "  Dr.  Deane  exclaimed ;  but  the  word  con 
veys  no  idea  of  his  wrath  and  amazement. 

••  Father,"  she  said,  "  this  is  thy  house,  and  it  is  for  thee 
to  direct,  here.  Within  its  walls,  I  will  conduct  myself 
according  to  thy  wishes ;  I  will  receive  no  guest  whom 
thee  forbids,  and  will  even  respect  thy  views  in  regard  to 
my  intercourse  with  our  friends ;  but  unless  thee  wants  to 
deprive  me  of  all  liberty,  and  set  aside  every  right  of  mine 


326  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

as  an  accountable  being,  tliee  must  allow  me  sometimes  to 
do  what  both  my  heart  and  my  conscience  command  !  " 

"  Is  it  a  woman's  place,"  he  angrily  asked,  "  to  visit  a 
man  ?  " 

"  When  the  two  have  need  of  each  other,  and  God  has 
joined  their  hearts  in  love  and  in  truth,  and  the  man  is 
held  back  from  reaching  the  woman,  then  it  is  her  place  to 
go  to  him  !  " 

Never  before  had  Dr.  Deane  beheld  upon  his  daughter's 
sweet,  gentle  face  such  an  expression  of  lofty  spiritual  au 
thority.  While  her  determination  really  outraged  his  con 
ventional  nature,  he  felt  that  it  came  from  a  higher  source 
than  his  prohibition.  He  knew  that  nothing  which  he 
could  urge  at  that  moment  would  have  the  slightest  weight 
in  her  mind,  and  moreover,  that  the  liberal,  independent 
customs  of  the  neighborhood,  as  well  as  the  respect  of  his 
sect  for  professed  spiritual  guidance,  withheld  him  from 
any  harsh  attempt  at  coercion.  He  was  powerless,  but 
still  inflexible. 

As  for  Martha,  what  she  had  said  was  simply  included 
in  what  she  was  resolved  to  do  ;  the  greater  embraced  the 
less.  It  was  a  defiance  of  her  father's  authority,  very  pain 
ful  from  the  necessity  of  its  assertion,  but  rendered  inev 
itable  by  his  course.  She  knew  with  what  tenacity  he 
would  seize  and  hold  every  inch  of  relinquished  ground ; 
she  felt,  as  keenly  as  Gilbert  himself,  the  implied  insult 
which  he  could  not  resent ;  and  her  pride,  her  sense  of 
justice,  and  the  strong  fidelity  of  her  woman's  heart,  alike 
impelled  her  to  stand  firm. 

"Good-bye,  Martha!"  Gilbert  said,  taking  her  hand. 
"I  must  wait." 

«  We  wait  together,  Gilbert !  " 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  327 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

MISS    LAVENDER   MAKES   A   GUESS. 

THERE  were  signs  of  spring  all  over  the  land,  and  Gil 
bert  resumed  his  farm- work  with  the  fresh  zest  which  the 
sense  of  complete  ownership  gave.  He  found  a  purchaser 
for  his  wagon,  sold  one  span  of  horses,  and  thus  had 
money  in  hand  for  all  the  coming  expenses  of  the  year. 
His  days  of  hauling,  of  anxiety,  of  painful  economy,  were 
over ;  he  rejoiced  in  his  fully  developed  and  recognized 
manhood,  and  was  cheered  by  the  respect  and  kindly  sym 
pathy  of  his  neighbors. 

Meanwhile,  the  gossip,  not  only  of  Kennett,  but  of  Marl- 
borough,  Pennsbury,  and  New- Garden,  was  as  busy  as  ever. 
No  subject  of  country  talk  equalled  in  interest  the  loves 
of  Gilbert  Potter  and  Martha  Deane.  Mark,  too  open- 
hearted  to  be  intrusted  with  any  secret,  was  drawn  upon 
wherever  he  went,  and  he  revealed  more  (although  he 
was  by  no  means  Martha's  confidant)  than  the  public  had 
any  right  to  know.  The  idlers  at  the  Unicorn  had  seen 
Gilbert  enter  Dr.  Deane's  house,  watched  his  return  there 
from,  made  shrewd  notes  of  the  Doctor's  manner  when  he 
came  forth  that  evening,  and  guessed  the  result  of  the  in 
terview  almost  as  well  as  if  they  had  been  present. 

The  restoration  of  Gilbert's  plundered  money,  and  his 
hardly  acquired  independence  as  a  landholder,  greatly 
strengthened  the  hands  of  his  friends.  There  is  no  logic 
so  convincing  as  that  of  good  luck ;  in  proportion  as  a 
man  is  fortunate  (so  seems  to  run  the  law  of  the  world), 
he  attracts  fortune  to  him.  A  good  deed  would  not  have 


328  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

helped  Gilbert  so  much  in  popular  estimation,  as  this  sud 
den  and  unexpected  release  from  his  threatened  difficul 
ties.  The  blot  upon  his  name  was  already  growing  fainter, 
and  a  careful  moral  arithmetician  might  have  calculated 
the  point  of  prosperity  at  which  it  would  cease  to  be  seen. 

Nowhere  was  the  subject  discussed  with  greater  interest 
and  excitement  than  in  the  Fairthorn  household.  Sally, 
when  she  first  heard  the  news,  loudly  protested  her  un 
belief;  why,  the  two  would  scarcely  speak  to  each  other, 
she  said ;  she  had  seen  Gilbert  turn  his  back  on  Martha, 
as  if  he  could  n't  bear  the  sight  of  her ;  it  ought  to  be, 
and  she  would  be  glad  if  it  was,  but  it  was  n't ! 

When,  therefore,  Mark  confirmed  the  report,  and  was 
led  on,  by  degrees,  to  repeat  Gilbert's  own  words,  Sally 
rushed  out  into  the  kitchen  with  a  vehemence  which  left 
half  her  apron  hanging  on  the  door-handle,  torn  off  from 
top  to  bottom  in  her  whirling  flight,  and  announced  the 
fact  to  her  mother. 

Joe,  who  was  present,  immediately  cried  out,  — 

"  O,  Sally  !  now  I  may  tell  about  Mark,  may  n't  I  ?  " 

Sally  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  pitched  him  out  the 
kitchen-door.  Her  face  was  the  color  of  fire. 

"  My  gracious,  Sally  !  "  exclaimed  Mother  Fairthorn,  in 
amazement ;  "  what  's  that  for  ?  " 

But  Sally  had  already  disappeared,  and  was  relating  her 
trouble  to  Mark,  who  roared  with  wicked  laughter,  where 
upon  she  nearly  cried  with  vexation. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  he  ;  "  the  boy  's  right.  I  told  Gil 
bert  this  very  afternoon  that  it  was  about  time  to  speak  to 
the  old  man  ;  and  he  allowed  it  was.  Come  out  with  me 
and  don't  be  afeard  —  I  '11  do  the  talkin'." 

Hand  in  hand  they  went  into  the  kitchen,  Sally  blushing 
and  hanging  back  a  little.  Farmer  Fairthorn  had  just 
come  in  from  the  barn,  and  was  warming  his  hands  at  the 
fire.  Mother  Fairthorn  might  have  had  her  suspicions, 
but  it  was  her  nature  to  wait  cheerfully,  and  say  nothing. 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  329 

"  See  here,  Daddy  and  Mammy ! "  said  Mark,  "  have 
either  o'  you  any  objections  to  Sally  and  me  bein'  a  pair  ?  " 

Farmer  Fairthorn  smiled,  rubbed  his  hands  together, 
and  turning  to  his  wife,  asked,  —  "  "What  has  Mammy  to 
say  to  it  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  Mark  with  her  kindly  eyes,  in  which 
twinkled  something  like  a  tear,  and  said, —  "  I  was  guessin' 
it  might  turn  out  so  between  you  two,  and  if  I  'd  had  any 
thing  against  you,  Mark,  I  would  n't  ha'  let  it  run  on.  Be 
a  steady  boy,  and  you  '11  make  Sally  a  steady  woman. 
She  's  had  pretty  much  her  own  way." 

Thereupon  Farmer  Fairthorn,  still  rubbing  his  hands, 
ventured  to  remark,  —  "  The  girl  might  ha'  done  worse." 
This  was  equivalent  to  a  hearty  commendation  of  the 
match,  and  Mark  so  understood  it.  Sally  kissed  her  mother, 
cried  a  little,  caught  her  gown  on  a  corner  of  the  kitchen- 
table,  and  thus  the  betrothal  was  accepted  as  a  family  fact 
Joe  and  Jake  somewhat  disturbed  the  bliss  of  the  evening, 
it  is  true,  by  bursting  into  the  rc-om  from  time  to  time, 
staring  significantly  at  the  lovers,  and  then  rushing  out 
again  with  loud  whoops  and  laughter. 

Sally  could  scarcely  await  the  coming  of  the  next  day, 
to  visit  Martha  Deane.  At  first  she  felt  a  little  piqued 
that  she  had  not  received  the  news  from  Martha's  own 
lips,  but  this  feeling  speedily  vanished  in  the  sympathy 
with  her  friend's  trials.  She  was  therefore  all  the  more 
astonished  at  the  quiet,  composed  bearing  of  the  latter. 
The  tears  she  had  expected  to  shed  were  not  once  drawn 
upon. 

"  0,  Martha ! "  she  cried,  after  the  first  impetuous  out 
burst  of  feeling,  —  "  to  think  that  it  has  all  turned  out  just 
as  I  wanted  !  No,  I  don't  quite  mean  that ;  you  know  I 
could  n't  wish  you  to  have  crosses ;  but  about  Gilbert ! 
And  it  's  too  bad  —  Mark  has  told  me  dreadful  things, 
but  I  hope  they 're  not  all  true;  you  don't  look  like  it; 
and  I  'm  so  glad,  you  can't  think  !  " 


330  THE  STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

Martha  smiled,  readily  untangling  Sally's  thoughts,  and 
said,  —  "I  must  n't  complain,  Sally.  Nothing  has  come 
to  pass  that  I  had  not  prepared  my  mind  to  meet.  We 
will  only  have  to  wait  a  little  longer  than  you  and  Mark." 

"  No  you  won't ! "  Sally  exclaimed.  "  I  '11  make  Mark 
wait,  too !  And  everything  must  be  set  right  —  some 
body  must  do  something  !  Where  's  Betsy  Lavender  ?  " 

"  Here  ! "  answered  the  veritable  voice  of  the  spinster, 
through  the  open  door  of  the  small  adjoining  room. 

"  Gracious,  how  you  frightened  me  ! "  cried  Sally.  "  But, 
Betsy,  you  seem  to  be  able  to  help  everybody ;  why  can't 
you  do  something  for  Martha  and  Gilbert  ? " 

"  Martha  and  Gilbert.  That 's  what  I  ask  myself,  nigh 
onto  a  hundred  times  a  day,  child.  But  there  's  things  that 
takes  the  finest  kind  o'  wit  to  see  through,  and  you  can't 
make  a  bead-purse  out  of  a  sow's-ear,  neither  jerk  Time  by 
the  forelock,  when  there  a'n't  a  hair,  as  you  can  see,  to 
hang  on  to.  I  dunno  as  you  '11  rightly  take  my  meanin'; 
but  never  mind,  all  the  same,  I  'm  flummuxed,  and  it 's  the 
longest  and  hardest  flummux  o'  my  life  !  " 

Miss  Betsy  Lavender,  it  must  here  be  explained,  was 
more  profoundly  worried  than  she  was  willing  to  admit. 
Towards  Martha  she  concealed  the  real  trouble  of  her 
mind  under  the  garb  of  her  quaint,  jocular  speech,  which 
meant  much  or  little,  as  one  might  take  it.  She  had  just 
returned  from  one  of  her  social  pilgrimages,  during  which 
she  had  heard  nothing  but  the  absorbing  subject  of  gossip. 
She  had  been  questioned  and  cross-questioned,  entreated 
by  many,  as  Sally  had  done,  to  do  something  (for  all  had 
great  faith  in  her  powers),  and  warned  by  a  few  not  to 
meddle  with  what  did  not  concern  her.  Thus  she  had 
come  back  that  morning,  annoyed,  discomposed,  and  more 
dissatisfied  with  herself  than  ever  before,  to  hear  Martha's 
recital  of  what  had  taken  place  during  her  absence. 

In  spite  of  Martha's  steady  patience  and  cheerfulness, 
Miss  Lavender  knew  that  the  painful  relation  in  which  she 


THE  STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  331 

stgod  to  her  father  would  not  be  assuaged  by  the  lapse  of 
time.  She  understood  Dr.  Deane's  nature  quite  as  well  as 
his  daughter,  and  was  convinced  that,  for  the  present, 
neither  threats  nor  persuasions  would  move  his  stubborn 
resistance.  According  to  the  judgment  of  the  world  (the 
older  part  of  it,  at  least),  he  had  still  right  on  his  side. 
Facts  were  wanted ;  or,  rather,  the  one  fact  upon  which 
resistance  was  based  must  be  removed. 

With  all  this  trouble,  Miss  Lavender  had  a  presentiment 
that  there  was  work  for  her  to  do,  if  she  could  only  dis 
cover  what  it  was.  Her  faith  in  her  own  powers  of  assist 
ance  was  somewhat  shaken,  and  she  therefore  resolved  to 
say  nothing,  promise  nothing,  until  she  had  both  hit  upon 
a  plan  and  carried  it  into  execution. 

Two  or  three  days  after  Sally's  visit,  on  a  mild,  sunny 
morning  in  the  beginning  of  April,  she  suddenly  announced 
her  intention  of  visiting  the  Potter  farm-house. 

"  I  ha'  n't  seen  Mary  since  last  fall,  you  know,  Martha," 
she  said ;  "  and  I  've  a  mortal  longin'  to  wish  Gilbert  joy 
o'  his  good  luck,  and  maybe  say  a  word  to  keep  him  in 
good  heart  about  you.  Have  you  got  no  message  to  send 
by  me?" 

"  Only  my  love,"  Martha  answered ;  "  and  tell  him  how 
you  left  me.  He  knows  I  will  keep  my  word ;  when  I 
need  his  counsel,  I  will  go  to  him." 

"  If  more  girls  talked  and  thought  that  way,  us  women  'd 
have  fairer  shakes,"  Miss  Lavender  remarked,  as  she  put 
on  her  cloak  and  pattens. 

When  she  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  overlooking  the 
glen,  she  noticed  fresh  furrows  in  the  field  on  her  left. 
Clambering  through  the  fence,  she  waited  until  the  heads 
of  a  pair  of  horses  made  their  appearance,  rising  over  the 
verge  of  the  hill.  As  she  conjectured,  Gilbert  Potter  was 
behind  them,  guiding  the  plough-handle.  He  was  heartily 
glad  to  see  her,  and  halted  his  team  at  the  corner  of  the 
"  land." 


332  THE   STORY  OF    KENNETT. 

"  I  did  n't  know  as  you  'd  speak  to  me,"  said  she,  with 
assumed  grimness.  "Maybe  you  would  n't,  if  I  did  n't 
come  direct  from  her.  Ah,  you  need  n't  look  wild ;  it 's 
only  her  love,  and  what  's  the  use,  for  you  had  it  already ; 
but  never  mind,  lovyers  is  never  satisfied  ;  and  she  's  chip 
per  and  peart  enough,  seein'  what  she  has  to  bear  for  your 
sake,  but  she  don't  mind  that,  on  the  contrary,  quite  the 
reverse,  and  I  'm  sure  you  don't  deserve  it ! " 

"  Did  she  tell  you  what  passed  between  us,  the  last 
time  ?  "  Gilbert  asked. 

ft  The  last  time.  Yes.  And  jokin'  aside,  which  often 
means  the  contrary  in  my  crooked  ways  o'  talkin',  a'n't  it 
about  time  somethin'  was  done  ?  " 

«  What  can  be  done  ?  " 

"  I  clunno,"  said  Miss  Lavender,  gravely.  "  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  what 's  in  the  way,  or  rather  none  of  us 
knows  what  it  is,  only  where  it  is  ;  and  a  thing  unbeknown 
may  be  big  or  little ;  who  can  tell  ?  And  latterly  I  Ve 
thought,  Gilbert,  that  maybe  your  mother  is  in  the  fix  of  a 
man  I  've  heerd  tell  on,  that  fell  into  a  pit,  and  ketched  by 
the  last  bush,  and  hung  on,  and  hung  on,  till  he  could  hold 
on  no  longer ;  so  he  gev  himself  up  to  death,  shet  his  eyes 
and  let  go,  and  lo  and  behold  !  the  bottom  was  a  matter  o' 
six  inches  under  his  feet !  Leastways,  everything  p'ints  to 
a  sort  o'  skeary  fancy  bein'  mixed  up  with  it,  not  a  thing  to 
laugh  at,  I  can  tell  you,  but  as  earnest  as  sin,  for  I  've  seen 
the  likes,  and  maybe  easy  to  make  straight  if  you  could 
only  look  into  it  yourself;  but  you  think  there  's  no  chance 
o'that?" 

"  No,"  said  Gilbert.  "  I  've  tried  once  too  often,  already ; 
I  shall  not  try  again." 

"  Try  again,"  Miss  Lavender  repeated.  "  Then  why 
not  ?  "  —  but  here  she  paused,  and  seemed  to  meditate. 
The  fact  was,  she  had  been  tempted  to  ask  Gilbert's 
advice  in  regard  to  the  plan  she  was  revolving  in  her  brain. 
The  tone  of  his  voice,  however,  was  discouraging ;  she  saw 


THE   STORY   OF  KENXETT.  333 

that  he  had  taken  a  firm  and  gloomy  resolution  to  be  silent, 
—  his  uneasy  air  hinted  that  he  desired  to  avoid  further 
talk  on  this  point.  So,  with  a  mental  reprimand  of  the 
indiscretion  into  which  her  sympathy  with  him  had  nearly 
betrayed  her,  she  shut  her  teeth  and  slightly  bit  her 
tongue. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said ;  "  I  hope  it  '11  come  out  before 
you  're  both  old  and  sour  with  waitin',  that  's  all !  I  don't 
want  such  true-love  as  your'n  to  be  like  firkin-butter  at  th' 
end ;  for  as  fresh,  and  firm,  and  well-kep'  as  you  please,  it 
ha'n't  got  the  taste  o'  the  clover  and  the  sweet-grass ;  but 
who  knows  ?  I  may  dance  at  your  weddin',  after  all,  soon 
er  'n  I  mistrust ;  and  so  I  'm  goin'  down  to  spend  the  day 
with  y'r  mother  !  " 

She  strode  over  the  furrow  and  across  the  weedy  sod, 
and  Gilbert  resumed  his  ploughing.  As  she  approached 
the  house,  Miss  Lavender  noticed  that  the  secured  owner 
ship  of  the  property  was  beginning  to  express  itself  in 
various  slight  improvements  and  adornments.  The  space 
in  front  of  the  porch  was  enlarged,  and  new  flower-borders 
set  along  the  garden-paling  ;  the  barn  had  received  a  fresh 
coat  of  whitewash,  as  well  as  the  trunks  of  the  apple-trees, 
which  shone  like  white  pillars  ;  and  there  was  a  bench  with 
bright  straw  bee-hives  under  the  lilac-bush.  Mary  Potter 
was  at  work  in  the  garden,  sowing  her  early  seeds. 

••  Well,  I  do  declare ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Lavender,  after 
the  first  cordial  greetings  were  over.  "  Seems  almost  like 
a  different  place,  things  is  so  snugged  up  and  put  to 
rights." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  Potter;  "I  had  hardly  the  heart, 
before,  to  make  it  everything  that  we  wanted ;  and  you 
can't  think  what  a  satisfaction  I  have  in  it  now." 

"  Yes,  I  can  !  Give  me  the  redishes,  while  you  stick  in 
them  beets.  I  've  got  a  good  forefinger  for  plantin'  'em,  — 
long  and  stiff;  and  I  can't  stand  by  and  see  you  workin' 
alone,  without  fidgets." 


334  THE   STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Miss  Lavender  threw  off  her  cloak  and  worked  with  a 
will.  When  the  gardening  was  finished,  she  continued  her 
assistance  in  the  house,  and  fully  earned  her  dinner  before 
she  sat  down  to  it.  Then  she  insisted  on  Mary  Potter 
bringing  out  her  sewing,  and  giving  her  something  more  to 
do ;  it  was  one  of  her  working-days,  she  said ;  she  had 
spent  rather  an  idle  winter ;  and  moreover,  she  was  in  such 
spirits  at  Gilbert's  good  fortune,  that  she  could  n't  be  satis 
fied  without  doing  something  for  him,  and  to  sew  up  the 
seams  of  his  new  breeches  was  the  very  thing !  Never 
had  she  been  so  kind,  so  cheerful,  and  so  helpful,  and 
Mary  Potter's  nature  warmed  into  happy  content  in  her 
society. 

No  one  should  rashly  accuse  Miss  Lavender  if  there  was 
a  little  design  in  this.  The  task  she  had  set  herself  to  at 
tempt  was  both  difficult  and  delicate.  She  had  divided  it 
into  two  portions,  requiring  very  different  tactics,  and  was 
shrewd  enough  to  mask,  in  every  possible  way,  the  one 
from  which  she  had  most  hopes  of  obtaining  a  result.  She 
made  no  reference,  at  first,  to  Gilbert's  attachment  to  Mar 
tha  Deane,  but  seemed  to  be  wholly  absorbed  in  the  subject 
of  the  farm  ;  then,  taking  wide  sweeps  through  all  varieties 
of  random  gossip,  preserving  a  careless,  thoughtless,  rat 
tling  manner,  she  stealthily  laid  her  pitfalls  for  the  unsus 
pecting  prey. 

"  I  was  over  't  Warren's  t'  other  day,"  she  said,  biting  off 
a  thread,  "  and  Becky  had  jist  come  home  from  Phildel- 
phy.  There  's  new-fashioned  bonnets  cornin'  up,  she  says. 
She  stayed  with  Allen's,  but  who  they  are  I  don't  know. 
Laws !  now  I  think  on  it,  Mary,  you  stayed  at  Allen's,  too, 
when  you  were  there  ! " 

"  No,"  said  Mary  Potter,  « it  was  at  —  Treadwell's." 

"  Treadwell's  ?  I  thought  you  told  me  Allen's.  All  the 
same  to  me,  Allen  or  Treadwell ;  I  don't  know  either  of 
'em.  It 's  a  long  while  since  I  've  been  in  Phildelphy,  and 
never  likely  to  go  ag'in.  I  don't  fancy  trampin'  over  them 


THE   STORY   OF   KENXETT."  335 

hard  bricks,  though,  to  be  sure,  a  body  sees  the  fashions ; 
but  what  with  boxes  tumbled  in  and  out  o'  the  stores,  and 
bar'ls  rollin',  and  carts  always  goin'  by.  you  're  never  sure 
o'  y'r  neck  ;  and  I  was  sewin'  for  Clarissa  Lee,  Jackson  that 
was,  that  married  a  dry -goods  man,  the  noisiest  place  that 
ever  was ;  you  could  hardly  hear  yourself  talk ;  but  a  body 
gets  used  to  it,  in  Second  Street,  close't  to  Market,  and 
were  you  anywheres  near  there  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  Fourth  Street,"  Mary  Potter  answered,  with  a 
little  hesitation.  Miss  Lavender  secretly  noticed  her  unea 
siness,  which,  she  also  remarked,  arose  not  from  suspicion, 
but  from  memory. 

"  What  kind  o'  buttons  are  you  goin'  to  have.  Mary  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  Horn  splits,  and  brass  cuts  the  stuff,  and 
mother  o'  pearl  wears  to  eternity,  but  they  're  so  awful 
dear.  Fourth  Street,  you  said  ?  One  street 's  like  another 
to  me,  after  you  get  past  the  corners.  I  'd  always  know 
Second,  though,  by  the  tobacco-shop,  with  the  wild  Injun 
at  the  door,  liftin'  his  tommyhawk  to  skulp  you  —  ugh  !  — 
but  never  mind,  all  the  same,  skulp  away  for  what  I  care, 
for  I  a'n't  likely  ever  to  lay  eyes  on  you  ag'in ! " 

Having  thus,  with  perhaps  more  volubility  than  was  re 
quired,  covered  up  the  traces  of  her  design,  Miss  Lavender 
cast  about  how  to  commence  the  second  and  more  hopeless 
attack.  It  was  but  scant  intelligence  which  she  had  gained, 
but  in  that  direction  she  dared  not  venture  further.  What 
she  now  proposed  to  do  required  more  courage  and  less 
cunning. 

Her  manner  gradually  changed ;  she  allowed  lapses  of 
silence  to  occur,  and  restricted  her  gossip  to  a  much  nar 
rower  sweep.  She  dwelt,  finally,  upon  the  singular  circum 
stances  of  Sandy  Flash's  robbery  of  Gilbert,  and  the  res 
toration  of  the  money. 

"  Talkin'  o'  Deb.  Smith,"  she  then  said,  «  Mary,  do  you 
mind  when  I  was  here  last  harvest,  and  the  talk  we  had 
about  Gilbert  ?  I  Ve  often  thought  on  it  since,  and  how  I 


336  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

guessed  right  for  once't,  for  I  know  the  ways  o'  men,  if 
I  am  an  old  maid,  and  so  it 's  come  out  as  I  said,  and  a 
finer  couple  than  they  '11  make  can't  be  found  in  the 
county ! " 

Mary  Potter  looked  up,  with  a  shadow  of  the  old  trouble 
on  her  face.  "  You  know  all  about  it,  Betsy,  then  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Bless  your  soul,  Mary,  everybody  knows  about  it ! 
There  's  been  nothin'  else  talked  about  in  the  neighbor 
hood  for  the  last  three  weeks ;  why,  ha'  n't  Gilbert  told 
you  o'  what  passed  between  him  and  Dr.  Deane,  and  how 
Martha  stood  by  him  as  no  woman  ever  stood  by  a  man  ?" 

An  expression  of  painful  curiosity,  such  as  shrinks  from 
the  knowledge  it  craves,  came  into  Mary  Potter's  eyes. 
"  Gilbert  has  told  me  nothing,"  she  said,  "  since  —  since 
that  time." 

"  That  time.  I  won't  ask  you  what  time ;  it 's  neither 
here  nor  there ;  but  you  ought  to  know  the  run  o'  things, 
when  it 's  common  talk."  And  therewith  Miss  Lavender 
began  at  the  beginning,  and  never  ceased  until  she  had 
brought  the  history,  in  all  its  particulars,  down  to  that  very 
day.  She  did  not  fail  to  enlarge  on  the  lively  and  univer 
sal  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  lovers  which  was  mani 
fested  by  the  whole  community.  Mary  Potter's  face  grew 
paler  and  paler  as  she  spoke,  but  the  tears  which  some 
parts  of  the  recital  called  forth  were  quenched  again,  as  it 
seemed,  by  flashes  of  aroused  pride. 

"Now,"  Miss  Lavender  concluded,  "you  see  just  how  the 
matter  stands.  I  'm  not  hard  on  you,  savin'  and  exceptin' 
that  facts  is  hard,  which  they  sometimes  are  I  don't  deny ; 
but  here  we  're  all  alone  with  our  two  selves,  and  you  '11 
grant  I  'm  a  friend,  though  I  may  have  queer  ways  o' 
showin'  it ;  and  why  should  n't  I  say  that  all  the  trouble 
comes  o'  Gilbert  bearin'  your  name  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  know  it ! "  Mary  Potter  cried.  "  Is  n't  my 
load  heaped  up  heavier  as  it  comes  towards  the  end? 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  337 

"What  can  I  do  but  wait  till  the  day  when  I  can  give  Gil 
bert  his  father's  name  ?  " 

"  His  father's  name !  Then  you  can  do  it,  some  day  ?  I 
suspicioned  as.  much.  And  you  've  been  bound  up  from 
doin'  it,  all  this  while,  —  and  that 's  what 's  been  layin'  so 
heavy  on  your  mind,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Betsy,"  said  Mary  Potter,  with  sudden  energy,  "  I  '11 
say  as  much  as  I  dare,  so  that  I  may  keep  my  senses.  I 
fear,  sometimes,  I  '11  break  together  for  want  of  a  friend 
like  you,  to  steady  me  while  I  walk  the  last  steps  of  my 
hard  road.  Gilbert  was  born  in  wedlock  ;  I  'm  not  bound 
to  deny  that ;  but  I  committed  a  sin,  —  not  the  sin  people 
charge  me  with,  — and  the  one  that  persuaded  me  to  it  has 
to  answer  for  more  than  I  have.  I  bound  myself  not  to  tell 
the  name  of  Gilbert's  father,  —  not  to  say  where  or  when 
I  was  married,  not  to  do  or  say  anything  to  put  others  on 
the  track,  until  —  but  there  's  the  sin  and  the  trouble  and 
the  punishment  all  in  one.  If  I  told  that,  you  might  guess 
the  rest.  You  know  what  a  name  I  've  had  to  bear,  but 
I  've  taken  my  cross  and  fought  my  way,  and  put  up  with 
all  things,  that  I  might  deserve  the  fullest  justification  the 
Lord  has  in  His  hands.  If  I  had  known  all  beforehand, 
Betsy,  —  but  I  expected  the  release  in  a  month  or  two,  and 
it  has  n't  come  in  twenty-five  years  ! " 

"  Twenty-five  years  !  "  repeated  Miss  Lavender,  heedless 
of  the  drops  running  down  her  thin  face.  "  If  there  was 
a  sin,  Mary,  even  as  big  as  a  yearlin'  calf,  you  've  worked 
off  the  cost  of  it,  years  ago  !  If  you  break  your  word  now, 
you  '11  stand  justified  in  the  sight  o'  the  Lord,  and  of  all 
men,  and  even  if  you  think  a  scrimption  of  it 's  left,  re 
member  your  dooty  to  Gilbert,  and  take  a  less  justification 
for  his  sake  !  " 

u  I  Ve  been  tempted  that  way,  Betsy,  but  the  end  I 
wanted  has  been  set  in  my  mind  so  long  I  can't  get  it  out. 
I  Ve  seen  the  Lord's  hand  so  manifest  in  these  past  days, 
that  I  'm  fearsome  to  hurry  His  judgments.  And  then, 

n 


338  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

though  I  try  not  to,  I  'm  waiting  from  day  to  day,  —  almost 
from  hour  to  hour,  —  and  it  seems  that  if  I  was  to  give  up 
and  break  my  vow,  He  would  break  it  for  me  the  next 
minute  afterwards,  to  punish  my  impatience  !  " 

"  Why,"  Miss  Lavender  exclaimed,  "  it  must  be  your 
husband's  death  you  're  waitin'  for  !  " 

Mary  Potter  started  up  with  a  wild  look  of  alarm.  "  No 
—  no  —  not  his  death  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  should  want  him 
to  —  be  living  !  Ask  me  no  more  questions  ;  forget  what 
I  've  said,  if  it  don't  incline  you  to  encourage  me  !  That 's 
why  I  've  told  you  so  much  !  " 

Miss  Lavender  instantly  desisted  from  further  appeal. 
She  rose,  put  her  arm  around  Mary  Potter's  waist,  and 
said,  —  "I  did  n't  mean  to  frighten  or  to  worry  you,  deary. 
I  may  think  your  conscience  has  worked  on  itself,  like,  till 
it 's  ground  a  bit  too  sharp ;  but  I  see  just  how  you  're 
fixed,  and  won't  say  another  word,  without  it  's  to  give 
comfort.  An  open  confession  's  good  for  the  soul,  they 
say,  and  half  a  loaf 's  better  than  no  bread,  and  you  have  n't 
violated  your  word  a  bit,  and  so  let  it  do  you  good  !  " 

In  fact,  when  Mary  Potter  grew  calm,  she  was  conscious 
of  a  relief  the  more  welcome  because  it  was  so  rare  in  her 
experience.  Miss  Lavender,  moreover,  hastened  to  place 
Gilbert's  position  in  a  more  cheerful  light,  and  the  same 
story,  repeated  for  a  different  purpose,  now  assumed  quite 
another  aspect.  She  succeeded  so  well,  that  she  left  be 
hind  her  only  gratitude  for  the  visit. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  came  forth  from  the  farm 
house,  and  commenced  slowly  ascending  the  hill.  She 
stopped  frequently  and  looked  about  her ;  her  narrow 
forehead  was  wrinkled,  and  the  base  of  her  long  nose  was 
set  between  two  deep  furrows.  Her  lips  were  twisted  in 
a  pucker  of  great  perplexity,  and  her  eyes  were  nearly 
closed  in  a  desperate  endeavor  to  solve  some  haunting, 
puzzling  question. 

"  It 's  queer,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  when  she  had 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  339 

nearly  reached  Ihe  top  of  the  hill,  —  "it 's  mortal  queer! 
Like  a  whip-poor-will  on  a  moonlight  night :  you  hear  it 
whistlin'  on  the  next  fence-rail,  it  does  n't  seem  a  yard  off; 
you  step  up  to  ketch  it,  and  there  's  nothin'  there  ;  then 
you  step  back  ag'in,  and  *  whip  -  poor  -  will !  whip  -  poor- 
will  ! '  whistles  louder  'n  ever,  —  and  so  on,  the  whole 
night,  and  some  folks  says, they  can  throw  their  voices 
outside  o'  their  bodies,  but  that  's  neither  here  nor 
there. 

"  Now  why  can't  I  ketch  hold  o'  this  thing  ?  It  is  n't  a 
yard  off  me,  I  '11  be  snaked  !  And  I  dunno  what  ever  she 
said  that  makes  me  think  so,  but  I  feel  it  in  my  bones,  and 
no  use  o'  callin'  up  words ;  it 's  one  o'  them  things  that 
comes  without  callin',  when  they  come  at  all,  and  I  'm  so 
near  guessin'  I  '11  have  no  peace  day  or  night." 

With  many  similar  observations  she  resumed  her  walk, 
and  presently  reached  the  border  of  the  ploughed  land. 
Gilbert's  back  was  towards  her ;  he  was  on  the  descend 
ing  furrow.  She  looked  at  him,  started,  suddenly  lost  her 
breath,  and  stood  with  open  mouth  and  wide,  fixed  eyes. 

"  HA-HA-A  !  HA-HA-A-A  !  " 

Loud  and  shrill  her  cry  rang  across  the  valley.  It  was 
like  the  yell  of  a  war-horse,  scenting  the  battle  afar  off. 
All  the  force  of  her  lungs  and  muscles  expended  itself  in 
the  sound. 

The  next  instant  she  dropped  upon  the  moist,  ploughed 
earth,  and  sat  there,  regardless  of  gown  and  petticoat. 
"  Good  Lord ! "  she  repeated  to  herself,  over  and  over 
again.  Then,  seeing  Gilbert  approaching,  startled  by  the 
cry,  she  slowly  arose  to  her  feet 

"  A  good  guess,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  what 's  more, 
there  's  ways  o'  provin'  it.  He  's  comin',  and  he  must  n't 
know ;  you  're  a  fool,  Betsy  Lavender,  not  to  keep  your 
wits  better  about  you.  and-  go  rousin'  up  the  whole  neigh 
borhood  ;  good  look  that  your  face  is  crooked  and  don't 
show  much  o'  what 's  goin'  on  inside  !  " 


340  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Betsy  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"Nothin'  —  one  o'  my  crazy  notions,"  she  said.  "I 
used  to  holler  like  a  kildeer  when  I  was  a  girl  and  got 
out  on  the  Brandywine  hills  alone,  and  I  s'pose  I  must  ha' 
thought  about  it,  and  the  yell  sort  o'  come  of  itself,  for  it 
just  jerked  me  off  o'  my  feet ;  but  you  need  n't  tell  any 
body  that  I  cut  such  capers  in  my  old  days,  not  that  folks  'd 
much  wonder,  but  the  contrary,  for  they  're  used  to  me." 

Gilbert  laughed  heartily,  but  he  hardly  seemed  satisfied 
with  the  explanation.  "You  're  all  of  a  tremble,"  he 
said. 

"  Am  I  ?  "Well,  it 's  likely,  —  and  my  gownd  all  over 
mud  ;  but  there  's  one  favor  I  want  to  ask  o'  you,  and  no 
common  one,  neither,  namely,  the  loan  of  a  horse  for  a 
week  or  so." 

"  A  horse  ?  "  Gilbert  repeated. 

"  A  horse.  Not  Roger,  by  no  means ;  I  could  n't  ask 
that,  and  he  don't  know  me,  anyhow ;  but  the  least  rough- 
pacin'  o'  them  two,  for  I  've  got  considerable  ridin'  over 
the  country  to  do,  and  I  would  n't  ask  you,  but  it 's  a  busy 
time  o'  year,  and  all  folks  is  n't  so  friendly." 

"You  shall  have  whatever  you  want,  Betsy,"  he  said. 
"  But  you  've  heard  nothing  ?  "  — 

"Nothin'  o'  one  sort  or  t'other.  Make  yourself  easy, 
lad." 

Gilbert,  however,  had  been  haunted  by  new  surmises 
in  regard  to  Dr.  Deane.  Certain  trifles  had  returned  to  his 
memory  since  the  interview,  and  rather  than  be  longer  an 
noyed  with  them,  he  now  opened  his  heart  to  Miss  Lavender. 

A  curious  expression  came  over  her  face.  "  You  've  got 
sharp  eyes  and  ears  Gilbert,"  she  said.  "  Now  supposin' 
I  wanted  your  horse  o'  purpose  to  clear  up  your  doubts  in 
a  way  to  satisfy  you,  would  you  mind  lettin'  me  have  it  ?  " 

"  Take  even  Roger  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  No,  that  bay  '11  do.  Keep  thinkin'  that 's  what  I  'm 
after,  and  ask  me  no  more  questions  " 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  341 

She  crossed  the  ploughed  land,  crept  through  the  fence, 
and  trudged  up  the  road.  When  a  clump  of  bushes  on  the 
bank  had  hid  Gilbert  from  her  sight,  she  stopped,  took 
breath,  and  chuckled  with  luxurious  satisfaction. 

"  Betsy  Lavender,"  she  said,  with  marked  approval, 
u  you  're  a  cuter  old  thing  than  I  took  you  to  be !  " 


842  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MYSTERIOUS    MOVEMENTS. 

THE  next  morning  Sam  took  Gilbert's  bay  horse  to  Ken- 
nett  Square,  and  hitched  him  in  front  of  Dr.  Deane's  door. 
Miss  Lavender,  who  was  on  the  look-out,  summoned  the 
boy  into  the  house,  to  bring  her  own  side-saddle  down  from 
the  garret,  and  then  proceeded  to  pack  a  small  valise,  with 
straps  corresponding  to  certain  buckles  behind  the  sad 
dle.  Martha  Deane  looked  on  with  some  surprise  at  this 
proceeding,  but  as  Miss  Lavender  continued  silent,  she 
asked  no  questions. 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  the  spinster,  when  everything  was 
ready,  "  now  I  'm  good  for  a  week's  travel,  if  need  be  ! 
You  want  to  know  where  I  'm  goin',  child,  I  see,  and  you 
might  as  well  out  with  the  words,  though  not  much  use, 
for  I  hardly  know  myself." 

"  Betsy,"  said  Martha,  "  you  seem  so  strange,  so  unlike 
yourself,  ever  since  you  came  home  last  evening.  What 
is  it?" 

"  I  remembered  something  on  the  way  up ;  my  head  's 
been  so  bothered  that  I  forgot  things,  never  mind  what, 
for  I  must  have  some  business  o'  my  own  or  I  would  n't 
seem  to  belong  to  myself;  and  so  I  Ve  got  to  trapes 
round  considerable,  —  money  matters  and  the  likes,  —  and 
folks  a'n't  always  ready  for  you  to  the  minute;  therefore 
count  on  more  time  than  what 's  needful,  say  I." 

"  And  you  can't  guess  when  you  will  be  back  ?  "  Mar 
tha  asked. 

"  Hardly  under  a  week.  I  want  to  finish  up  everything 
and  come  home  for  a  good  long  spell." 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  343 

With  these  words  she  descended  to  the  road,  valise  in 
hand,  buckled  it  to  the  saddle,  and  mounted  the  horse. 
Then  she  said  good-bye  to  Martha,  and  rode  briskly  away, 
down  the  Philadelphia  road. 

Several  days  passed  and  nothing  was  heard  of  her.  Gil 
bert  Potter  remained  on  his  farm,  busy  with  the  labor  of 
the  opening  spring ;  Mark  Deane  was  absent,  taking  meas 
urements  and  making  estimates  for  the  new  house,  and 
Sally  Fairthorn  spent  all  her  spare  time  in  spinning  flax 
for  a  store  of  sheets  and  table-cloths,  to  be  marked  "  S.  A. 
F."  in  red  silk,  when  duly  woven,  hemmed,  and  bleached. 

One  afternoon,  during  Miss  Lavender's  absence,  Dr. 
Deane  was  again  caneu  upon  to  attend  Old-man  Barton. 
It  was  not  an  agreeable  duty,  for  the  Doctor  suspected  that 
something  more  than  medical  advice  was  in  question.  He 
had  not  visited  the  farm-house  since  his  discovery  of  Mar 
tha's  attachment  to  Gilbert  Potter,  —  had  even  avoided 
intercourse  with  Alfred  Barton,  towards  whom  his  manner 
became  cold  and  constrained.  It  was  a  sore  subject  in 
his  thoughts,  and  both  the  Bartons  seemed  to  be,  in  some 
manner,  accessory  to  his  disappointment. 

The  old  man  complained  of  an  attack  of  "  buzzing  in  the 
head,"  which  molested  him  at  times,  and  for  which  bleed 
ing  was  the  Doctor's  usual  remedy.  His  face  had  a 
flushed,  congested,  purple  hue,  and  there  was  an  unnatural 
glare  in  his  eyes ;  but  the  blood  flowed  thickly  and  slug 
gishly  from  his  skinny  arm,  and  a  much  longer  time  than 
usual  elapsed  before  he  felt  relieved. 

';  Gad,  Doctor !  "  he  said,  when  the  vein  had  been  closed, 
"  the  spring  weather  brings  me  as  much  fulness  as  a  young 
buck  o'  twenty.  I  'd  be  frisky  yet,  if  't  was  n't  for  them 
legs.  Set  down,  there  ;  you  've  news  to  tell  me  !  " 

"  I  think,  Friend  Barton,"  Dr.  Deane  answered,  "  thee  'd 
better  be  quiet  a  spell.  Talking  is  n't  exactly  good  for 
thee." 

"  Eh  ? "  the  old  man  growled ;  "  maybe  you  'd  like  to 


344  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

think  so,  Doctor.  If  I  am  house-bound,  I  pick  up  some 
things  as  they  go  around.  And  I  know  why  you  let  our 
little  matter  drop  so  suddent." 

He  broke  off  with  a  short,  malicious  laugh,  which  excited 
the  Doctor's  ire.  The  latter  seated  himself,  smoothed  his 
garments  and  his  face,  became  odorous  of  bergamot  and 
wintergreen,  and  secretly  determined  to  repay  the  old  man 
for  this  thrust. 

"  I  don't  know  what  thee  may  have  heard,  Friend  Bar 
ton,"  he  remarked,  in  his  blandest  voice.  "  There  is  always 
plenty  of  gossip  in  this  neighborhood,  and  some  persons, 
no  doubt,  have  been  too  free  with  my  name,  —  mine  and 
my  daughter's,  I  may  say.  But  I  want  thee  to  know  that 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  relinquishment  of  my  visits 
to  thee.  If  thee  's  curious  to  learn  the  reason,  perhaps  thy 
son  Alfred  may  be  able  to  give  it  more  circumstantially 
than  I  can." 

"  What,  what,  what ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "  The 
boy  told  you  not  to  come,  eh  ?  " 

"  Not  in  so  many  words,  mind  thee  ;  but  he  made  it  un 
necessary,  —  quite  unnecessary.  In  the  first  place,  he  gave 
me  no  legal  evidence  of  any  property,  and  until  that  was 
done,  my  hands  were  tied.  Further,  he  seemed  very  loath 
to  address  Martha  at  all,  which  was  not  so  singular,  consid 
ering  that  he  never  took  any  steps,  from  the  first,  to  gain 
her  favor ;  and  then  he  deceived  me  into  imagining  that 
she  wanted  time,  after  she  had  positively  refused  his  ad 
dresses.  He  is  mistaken,  and  thee  too,  if  you  think  that  I 
am  very  anxious  to  have  a  man  of  no  spirit  and  little  prop 
erty  for  my  son-in-law  !  " 

The  Doctor's  words  expressed  more  than  he  intended. 
They  not  only  stung,  but  betrayed  his  own  sting.  Old-man 
Barton  crooked  his  claws  around  his  hickory  staff,  and 
shook  with  senile  anger ;  while  his  small,  keen  eyes  glared 
on  his  antagonist's  face.  Yet  he  had  force  enough  to  wait 
until  the  first  heat  of  his  feeling  subsided. 


THE   STORY    OF   KEXXETT.  345 

"  Doctor,"  he  then  said,  "  mayhap  my  boy  's  better  than 
a  man  o'  no  name  and  no  property.  He  's  worth,  anyways, 
what  I  choose  to  make  him  worth.  Have  you  made  up  y*r 
mind  to  take  the  f  other,  that  you  've  begun  to  run  him 
down,  eh  ?  " 

They  were  equally  matched,  this  time.  The  color  came 
into  Dr.  Deane's  face,  and  then  faded,  leaving  him  slightly 
livid  about  the  mouth.  He  preserved  his  external  calm 
ness,  by  a  strong  effort,  but  there  was  a  barely  perceptible 
tremor  in  his  voice,  as  he  replied,  — 

"  It  is  not  pleasant  to  a  man  of  my  years  to  be  made  a 
tool  of,  as  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  thy  son  has  at 
tempted.  If  I  had  yielded  to  his  persuasions,  I  should 
have  spent  much  time  —  all  to  no  purpose,  I  doubt  not  — 
in  endeavoring  to  ascertain  what  thee  means  to  do  for  him 
in  thy  will.  It  was,  indeed,  the  only  thing  he  seemed  to 
think  or  care  much  about  If  he  has  so  much  money  of 
his  own,  as  thee  says,  it  is  certainly  not  creditable  that  he 
should  be  so  anxious  for  thy  decease." 

The  Doctor  had  been  watching  the  old  man  as  he  spoke, 
and  the  increasing  effect  of  his  words  was  so  perceptible 
that  he  succeeded  in  closing  with  an  agreeable  smile  and  a 
most  luxurious  pinch  of  snuff.  He  had  not  intended  to 
say  so  much,  at  the  commencement  of  the  conversation, 
but  he  had  been  sorely  provoked,  and  the  temptation  was 
irresistible. 

The  effect  was  greater  than  he  had  imagined.  Old  Bar 
ton's  face  was  so  convulsed,  that,  for  a  few  minutes,  the 
Doctor  feared  an  attack  of  complete  paralysis.  He  became 
the  physician  again,  undid  his  work  as  much  as  possible, 
and  called  Miss  Ann  into  the  room,  to  prevent  any  renewal 
of  the  discussion.  He  produced  his  stores  of  entertaining 
gossip,  and  prolonged  his  stay  until  all  threatening  symp 
toms  of  the  excitement  seemed  to  be  allayed.  The  old 
man  returned  to  his  ordinary  mood,  and  listened,  and  made 
his  gruff  comments,  but  with  temporary  fits  of  abstraction. 


346  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

After  the  Doctor's  departure,  he  scarcely  spoke  at  all,  for 
the  remainder  of  the  evening. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards,  when  Alfred  Barton  returned 
in  the  evening  from  a  sale  in  the  neighborhood,  he  was 
aware  of  a  peculiar  change  in  his  father's  manner.  His 
first  impression  was  that  the  old  man,  contrary  to  Dr. 
Deane's  orders,  had  resumed  his  rations  of  brandy,  and 
exceeded  the  usual  allowance.  There  was  a  vivid  color  on 
his  flabby  cheeks ;  he  was  alert,  talkative,  and  frequently 
chuckled  to  himself,  shifting  the  hickory  staff  from  hand 
to  hand,  or  rubbing  his  gums  backward  and  forward  on  its 
rounded  end. 

He  suddenly  asked,  as  Alfred  was  smoking  his  pipe  be 
fore  the  fire,  — 

"  Know  what  I  Ve  been  thinkin'  of,  to-day,  boy  ?  " 

"  No,  daddy  ;  anything  about  the  crops  ?  " 

"  Ha !  ha !  a  pretty  good  crop  for  somebody  it  '11  be ! 
Nearly  time  for  me  to  make  my  will,  eh  ?  I  'm  so  old  and 
weak  —  no  life  left  in  me  —  can't  last  many  days ! " 

He  laughed  with  a  hideous  irony,  as  he  pronounced  these 
words.  His  son  stared  at  him,  and  the  fire  died  out  in  the 
pipe  between  his  teeth.  Was  the  old  man  getting  childish  ? 
he  asked  himself.  But  no  ;  he  had  never  looked  more  dia 
bolically  cunning  and  watchful. 

"Why,  daddy,"  Alfred  said  at  last,  "I  thought  —  I  fan 
cied,  at  least,  you  'd  done  that,  long  ago." 

"  Maybe  I  have,  boy  ;  but  maybe  I  want  to  change  it.  I 
had  a  talk  with  the  Doctor  when  he  came  down  to  bleed 
me,  and  since  there  's  to  be  no  match  between  you  and  the 
girl "  — 

He  paused,  keeping  his  eyes  on  his  son's  face,  which 
lengthened  and  grew  vacant  with  a  vague  alarm. 

"  Why,  then,"  he  presently  resumed,  "  you  're  so  much 
poorer  by  the  amount  o'  her  money.  Would  it  be  fair,  do 
you  think,  if  I  was  to  put  that  much  to  what  I  might  ha' 
meant  for  you  before  ?  Don't  you  allow  you  ought  to  have 
a  little  more,  on  account  o'  your  disapp'intment  ? 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  347 

"  If  you  think  so,  dad,  it 's  all  right,"  said  the  son,  relight 
ing  his  pipe.  "  I  don't  know,  though,  what  Elisha  'd  say  to 
it ;  but  then,  he  's  no  right  to  complain,  for  he  married  full 
as  much  as  I  'd  ha'  got." 

"  That  he  did,  boy ;  and  when  all  's  said  and  done,  the 
money  's  my  own  to  do  with  it  what  I  please.  There  's  no 
law  o'  the  oldest  takin'  all.  Yes,  yes,  I  '11  have  to  make  a 
new  will ! " 

A  serene  joy  diffused  itself  through  Alfred  Barton's 
breast.  He  became  frank,  affectionate,  and  confidential. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  dad,"  he  said,  "  I  was  mighty 
afraid  you  'd  play  the  deuce  with  me,  because  all 's  over 
between  me  and  Martha  Deane.  You  seemed  so  set 
on  it." 

"  So  I  was  —  so  I  was,"  croaked  the  old  man,  "  but  I  've 
got  over  it  since  I  saw  the  Doctor.  After  all  I  've  heerd, 
she  's  not  the  wife  for  you ;  it 's  better  as  it  is.  You  'd 
rayther  have  the  money  without  her,  tell  the  truth  now, 
you  dog.  ha !  ha !  " 

"  Damme,  dad,  you  've  guessed  it !  "  Alfred  cried,  joining 
in  the  laugh.  "  She  's  too  high-flown  for  me.  I  never 
fancied  a  woman  that  's  ready  to  take  you  down,  every 
other  word  you  say  ;  and  I  '11  tell  you  now,  that  I  had  n't 
much  stomach  for  the  match,  at  any  time  ;  but  you  wanted 
it,  you  know,  and  I  've  done  what  I  could,  to  please  you." 

"  You  're  a  good  boy,  Alfred,  —  a  mighty  good  boy." 

There  was  nothing  very  amusing  in  this  opinion,  but  the 
old  man  laughed  over  it,  by  fits  and  starts,  for  a  long  time. 

"  Take  a  drop  o'  brandy,  boy  !  "  he  said.  "  You  may  as 
well  have  my  share,  till  I  'm  ready  to  begin  ag'in." 

This  was  the  very  climax  of  favor.  Alfred  arose  with  a 
broad  beam  of  triumph  on  his  face,  filled  the  glass,  and 
saying,  —  "  Here  's  long  life  to  you,  dad  !  "  turned  it  into 
his  mouth. 

"  Long  life  ?  "  the  old  man  muttered.  "  It 's  pretty  long 
as  it  is,  —  eighty-six  and  over ;  but  it  may  be  ninety-six,  or 


848  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

a  hundred  and  six;  who  knows?  Anyhow,  bo j,  long  or 
short,  I  '11  make  a  new  will !  " 

Giles  was  now  summoned,  to  wheel  him  into  the  adjoin 
ing  room  and  put  him  to  bed.  Alfred  Barton  took  a 
second  glass  of  brandy  (after  the  door  was  closed),  lighted 
a  fresh  pipe,  and  seated  himself  again  before  the  embers  to 
enjoy  the  surprise  and  exultation  of  his  fortune.  To  think 
that  he  had  worried  himself  so  long  for  that  which  finally 
came  of  itself!  Half  his  fear  of  the  old  man,  he  reflected, 
had  been  needless ;  in  many  things  he  had  acted  like  the 
veriest  fool !  "Well,  it  was  a  consolation  to  know  that  all 
his  anxieties  were  over.  The  day  that  should  make  him  a 
rich  and  important  man  might  be  delayed  (his  father's 
strength  and  vitality  were  marvellous),  but  it  was  certain  to 
come. 

Another  day  or  two  passed  by,  and  the  old  man's  quick, 
garrulous,  cheerful  mood  continued,  although  he  made  no 
further  reference  to  the  subject  of  the  will.  Alfred  Barton 
deliberated  whether  he  should  suggest  sending  for  Lawyer 
Stacy,  but  finally  decided  not  to  hazard  his  prospects  by  a 
show  of  impatience.  He  was  therefore  not  a  little  sur 
prised  when  his  sister  Ann  suddenly  made  her  appearance 
in  the  barn,  where  he  and  Giles  were  mending  some  dilap 
idated  plough-harness,  and  announced  that  the  lawyer  was 
even  then  closeted  with  their  father.  Moreover,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  knowledge,  Ann  herself  had  been  banished 
from  the  house.  She  clambered  into  the  hay-mow,  sat 
down  in  a  comfortable  spot,  and  deliberately  plied  her 
knitting-needles. 

Ann  seemed  to  take  the  matter  as  coolly  as  if  it  were  an 
every-day  occurrence,  but  Alfred  could  not  easily  recover 
from  his  astonishment.  There  was  more  than  accident 
here,  he  surmised.  Mr.  Stacy  had  made  his  usual  visit, 
not  a  fortnight  before ;  his  father's  determination  had  evi 
dently  been  the  result  of  his  conversation  with  Dr.  Deane ; 
and  in  the  mean  time  no  messenger  had  been  sent*  to 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  349 

Chester,  neither  was  there  time  for  a  letter  to  reach  there. 
Unless  Dr.  Deane  himself  were  concerned  in  secretly 
bringing  about  the  visit,  —  a  most  unlikely  circumstance, 
—  Alfred  Barton  could  not  understand  how  it  happened. 

"  How  did  th'  old  man  seem,  when  you  left  the  house  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  'Pears  to  me  I  ha'n't  seen  him  so  chipper  these  twenty 
years,"  said  Ann. 

"  And  how  long  are  they  to  be  left  alone  ?  " 

"  No  tellin',"  she  answered,  rattling  her  needles.  "  Mr. 
Stacy  '11  come,  when  all  's  done  ;  and  not  a  soul  is  to  go 
any  nearder  the  house  till  he  gives  the  word." 

Two  hours,  three  hours,  four  hours  passed  away,  before 
the  summons  came.  Alfred  Barton  found  himself  so  curi 
ously  excited  that  he  was  fain  to  leave  the  harness  to  Giles, 
and  quiet  himself  with  a  pipe  or  two  in  the  meadow.  He 
would  have  gone  up  to  the  Unicorn  for  a  little  stronger 
refreshment,  but  did  not  dare  to  venture  out  of  sight  of  the 
house.  Miss  Ann  was  the  perfect  image  of  Patience  in  a 
hay-mow,  smiling  at  his  anxiety.  The  motion  of  her  nee 
dles  never  ceased,  except  when  she  counted  the  stitches  in 
narrowing. 

Towards  sunset.  Mr.  Stacy  made  his  appearance  at  the 
barn-door,  but  his  face  was  a  sealed  book. 

On  the  morning  of  that  very  day,  another  mysterious 
incident  occurred.  Jake  Fairthorn  had  been  sent  to  Car 
son's  on  the  old  gray  mare,  on  some  farm-errand,  —  per 
haps  to  borrow  a  pick-axe  or  a  post-spade.  He  had 
returned  as  far  as  the  Philadelphia  road,  and  was  entering 
the  thick  wood  on  the  level  before  descending  to  Eedley 
Creek,  when  he  perceived  Betsy  Lavender  leading  Gilbert 
Potter's  bay  horse  through  a  gap  ia  the  fence,  after  which 
she  commenced  putting  up  the  rails  behind  her. 

"  Why,  Miss  Betsy  !  what  are  you  doin'  ?  "  cried  Jake, 
spurring  up  to  the  spot. 

"  Boys  should  speak  when  they  're  spoken  to,  and  not 


350  THE  STOKY  OF  KENNETT. 

come  where  they  're  not  wanted,"  she  answered,  in  a  savage 
tone.  "  Maybe  I  'm  goin'  to  hunt  bears." 

"  Oh,  please,  let  me  go  along  !  "  eagerly  cried  Jake,  who 
believed  in  bears. 

"  Go  along !  Yes,  and  be  eat  up."  Miss  Lavender 
looked  very  niuch  annoyed.  Presently,  however,  her  face 
became  amiable ;  she  took  a  buckskin  purse  out  of  her 
pocket,  selected  a  small  silver  coin,  and  leaning  over  the 
fence,  held  it  out  to  Jake. 

"  Here !  "  she  said,  "  here  's  a  'levenpenny-bit  for  you,  if 
you  '11  be  a  good  boy,  and  do  exackly  as  I  bid  you.  Can 
you  keep  from  gabblin',  for  two  days  ?  Can  you  hold  your 
tongue  and  not  tell  anybody  till  day  after  to-morrow  that 
you  seen  me  here,  goin'  into  the  woods  ?  " 

"  Why,  that 's  easy  as  nothin' !  "  cried  Jake,  pocketing 
the  coin.  Miss  Lavender,  leading  the  horse,  disappeared 
among  the  trees. 

But  it  was  not  quite  so  easy  as  Jake  supposed.  He  had 
not  been  at  home  ten  minutes,  before  the  precious  piece 
of  silver,  transferred  back  and  forth  between  his  pocket 
and  his  hand  in  the  restless  ecstasy  of  possession,  was  per 
ceived  by  Joe.  Then,  as  Jake  stoutly  refused  to  tell  where 
it  came  from,  Joe  rushed  into  the  kitchen,  exclaiming,  — - 

"  Mammy,  Jake  's  stole  a  levy  !  " 

This  brought  out  Mother  Fairthorn  and  Sally,  and  the 
unfortunate  Jake,  pressed  and  threatened  on  all  sides, 
began  to  cry.  lamentably. 

"  She  '11  take  it  from  me  ag'in,  if  I  tell,"  he  whimpered. 

"  She  ?  Who  ?  "  cried  both  at  once,  their  curiosity  now 
fully  excited ;  and  the  end  of  it  was  that  Jake  told  the 
whole  story,  and  was  made  wretched. 

"  Well !  "  Sally  exclaimed,  "  this  beats  all !  Gilbert  Pot 
ter's  bay  horse,  too  !  What  ever  could  she  be  after  ?  I  '11 
have  no  peace  till  I  tell  Martha,  and  so  I  may  as  well  go 
up  at  once,  for  there  's  something  in  the  wind,  and  if  she 
don't  know  already,  she  ought  to  !  " 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  351 

Thereupon  Sally  put  on  her  bonnet,  leaving  her  pewters 
half  scoured,  and  ran  rather  than  walked  to  the  village. 
Martha  Deane  could  give  no  explanation  of  the  circum 
stance,  but  endeavored,  for  Miss  Lavender's  sake,  to  con 
ceal  her  extreme  surprise. 

"  We  shall  know  what  it  means,"  she  said,  "  when  Betsy 
conies  home,  and  if  it  's  anything  that  concerns  me,  I 
promise,  Sally,  to  tell  you.  It  may,  however,  relate  to 
some  business  of  her  own,  and  so,  I  think,  we  had  better 
quietly  wait  and  say  nothing  about  it." 

Nevertheless,  after  Sally's  departure,  Martha  meditated 
long  and  uneasily  upon  what  she  had  heard.  The  fact 
that  Miss  Lavender  had  come  back  from  the  Potter  farm 
house  in  so  unusual  a  frame  of  mind,  borrowed  Gilbert's 
horse,  and  set  forth  on  some  mysterious  errand,  had  al 
ready  disquieted  her.  More  than  the  predicted  week  of 
absence  had  passed,  and  now  Miss  Lavender,  instead  of 
returning  home,  appeared  to  be  hiding  in  the  woods,  anx 
ious  that  her  presence  in  the  neighborhood  should  not  be 
made  known.  Moreover  she  had  been  seen  by  the  land 
lord  of  the  Unicorn,  three  days  before,  near  Logtown, 
riding  towards  Kennett  Square. 

These  mysterious  movements  filled  Martha  Deane  with 
a  sense  of  anxious  foreboding.  She  felt  sure  that  they  were 
connected,  in  some  way,  with  Gilbert's  interests,  and  Miss 
Lavender's  reticence  now  seemed  to  indicate  a  coming 
misfortune  which  she  was  endeavoring  to  avert.  If  these 
fears  were  correct,  Gilbert  needed  her  help  also.  He 
could  not  come  to  her;  was  she  not  called  upon  to  go 
to  him  ? 

Her  resolution  was  soon  taken,  and  she  only  waited 
until  her  father  had  left  on  a  visit  to  two  or  three  patients 
along  the  Street  Road.  His  questions,  she  knew,  would 
bring  on  another  painful  conflict  of  will,  and  she  would 
save  her  strength  for  Gilbert's  necessities.  To  avoid  the 
inferences  of  the  tavern  loungers,  she  chose  the  longer 


352  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

way,  eastward  out  of  the  village  to  the  cross-road  running 
past  the  Carson  place. 

All  the  sweet,  faint  tokens  of  Spring  cheered  her  eyes 
and  calmed  the  unrest  of  her  heart,  as  she  rode.  Among 
the  dead  leaves  of  the  woods,  the  snowy  blossoms  of  the 
blood-root  had  already  burst  forth  in  starry  clusters ;  the 
anemones  trembled  between  the  sheltering  knees  of  the 
old  oaks,  and  here  and  there  a  single  buttercup  dropped 
its  gold  on  the  meadows.  These  things  were  so  many  pre 
sentiments  of  brighter  days  in  Nature,  and  they  awoke  a 
corresponding  faith  in  her  own  heart. 

As  she  approached  the  Potter  farm  she  slackened  her 
horse's  pace,  and  deliberated  whether  she  should  ride 
directly  to  the  house  or  seek  for  Gilbert  in  the  fields.  She 
had  not  seen  Mary  Potter  since  that  eventful  Sunday,  the 
previous  summer,  and  felt  that  Gilbert  ought  to  be  con 
sulted  before  a  visit  which  might  possibly  give  pain.  Her 
doubts  were  suddenly  terminated  by  his  appearance,  with 
Sam  and  an  ox-cart,  in  the  road  before  her. 

Gilbert  could  with  difficulty  wait  until  the  slow  oxen 
had  removed  Sam  out  of  hearing. 

"  Martha  !  were  you  coming  to  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  I  promised,  Gilbert,"  she  said.  "  But  do  not  look 
so  anxious.  If  there  really  is  any  trouble,  I  must  learn  it 
of  you." 

She  then  related  to  him  what  she  had  noticed  in  Miss 
Lavender's  manner,  and  learned  of  her  movements.  He 
stood  before  her,  listening,  with  his  hand  on  the  mane  of 
her  horse,  and  his  eyes  intently  fixed  on  her  face.  She 
saw  the  agitation  her  words  produced,  and  her  own  vague 
fears  returned. 

"  Can  you  guess  her  business,  Gilbert  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Martha,"  he  answered,  "  I  only  know  that  there  is  some 
thing  in  her  mind,  and  I  believe  it  concerns  me.  I  am 
afraid  to  guess  anything  more,  because  I  have  only  my  own 
wild  fancies  to  go  upon,  and  it  won't  do  to  give  'em  play ! " 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXNETT.  353 

"  What  are  those  fancies,  Gilbert  ?     May  I  not  know  ?  " 

"  Can  you  trust  me  a  little,  Martha  ? "  he  implored. 
"  Whatever  I  know,  you  shall  know ;  but  if  I  sometimes 
seek  useless  trouble  for  myself,  why  should  I  seek  it  for 
you  ?  I  '11  tell  you  now  one  fear  I  've  kept  from  you,  and 
you  '11  see  what  I  mean." 

He  related  to  her  his  dread  that  Sandy  Flash  might 
prove  to  be  his  father,  and  the  solution  of  it  in  the  high 
wayman's  cell.  "  Have  I  not  done  right  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  Gilbert/'  she  replied,  with  a  brave  smile  ; 
"  you  might  have  tested  my  truth,  once  more,  if  you  had 
spoken  your  fears." 

"  I  need  no  test,  Martha ;  and  you  won't  press  me  for  an 
other,  now.  I  '11  only  say,  and  you  '11  be  satisfied  with  it, 
that  Betsy  seemed  to  guess  what  was  in  my  mind,  and  prom 
ised,  or  rather  expected,  to  come  back  with  good  news." 

"  Then,"  said  Martha,  "  I  must  wait  until  she  makes  her 
appearance." 

She  had  hardly  spoken  the  words,  before  a  figure  be 
came  visible  between  the  shock-headed  willows,  where  the 
road  crosses  the  stream.  A  bay  horse  —  and  then  Betsy 
Lavender  herself! 

Martha  turned  her  horse's  head,  and  Gilbert  hastened 
forward  with  her,  both  silent  and  keenly  excited. 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Betsy,  "  what  are  you  two  a- 
doin'  here  ?  " 

There  was  news  in  her  face,  both  saw ;  yet  they  also 
remarked  that  the  meeting  did  not  seem  to  be  entirely 
welcome  to  her. 

"  I  came,"  said  Martha,  "  to  see  whether  Gilbert  could 
tell  me  why  you  were  hiding  in  the  woods,  instead  of  com 
ing  home." 

"It  's  that  —  that  good-for-nothin'  serpent,  Jake  Fair- 
thorn  !  "  cried  Miss  Lavender.  "  I  see  it  all  now.  Much 
Gilbert  could  tell  you,  howsever,  or  you  him,  o'  my  busi 
ness,  and  have  n't  I  a  right  to  it,  as  well  as  other  folks ;  but 


354  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

never  mind,  fine  as  it 's  spun  it  '11  come  to  the  sun.  as  they 
say  o'  flax  and  sinful  doin's ;  not  that  such  is  mine,  But  you 
may  think  so  if  you  like,  and  you  '11  know  in  a  day  or  two, 
anyhow  !  " 

Martha  saw  that  Miss  Lavender's  lean  hands  were  tremb 
ling,  and  guessed  that  her  news  must  be  of  vital  impor 
tance.  "  Betsy,"  she  said,  "  I  see  you  don't  mean  to  tell  us ; 
but  one  word  you  can't  refuse  —  is  it  good  or  bad  ?  " 

"  Good  or  bad  ?  "  Miss  Lavender  repeated,  growing 
more  and  more  nervous,  as  she  looked  at  the  two  anxious 
faces.  "  Well,  it  is  n't  bad,  so  peart  yourselves  up,  and 
ask  me  no  more  questions,  this  day,  nor  yet  to-morrow, 
maybe ;  because  if  you  do,  I  '11  just  screech  with  all  my 
might ;  I  '11  holler,  Gilbert,  wuss  'n  you  heerd,  and  much 
good  that  '11  do  you,  givin'  me  a  crazy  name  all  over  the 
country.  I  'm  in  dead  earnest ;  if  you  try  to  worm  anything 
more  out  o'  me,  I  '11  screech  ;  and  so  I  was  goin'  to  bring 
your  horse  home,  Gilbert,  and  have  a  talk  with  your  mother, 
but  you  've  made  me  mortal  weak  betwixt  and  between 
you ;  and  I  '11  ride  back  with  Martha,  by  your  leave,  and 
you  may  send  Sam  right  away  for  the  horse.  No  ;  let  Sam 
come  now,  and  walk  alongside,  to  save  me  from  Martha's 
cur'osity." 

Miss  Lavender  would  not  rest  until  this  arrangement 
was  made.  The  two  ladies  then  rode  away  through  the 
pale,  hazy  sunset,  leaving  Gilbert  Potter  in  a  fever  of  im 
patience,  dread,  and  hope. 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  355 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE    FUNERAL. 

THE  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  Dr.  Deane  was  sum 
moned  in  haste  to  the  Barton  farm-house.  Miss  Betsy 
Lavender,  whose  secrets,  whatever  they  were,  had  inter 
fered  with  her  sleep,  heard  Giles's  first  knock,  and  thrust 
her  night-cap  out  the  window  before  he  could  repeat  it 
The  old  man,  so  Giles  announced,  had  a  bad  spell,  —  a 
'plectic  fit,  Lawyer  Stacy  called  it,  and  they  did  n't  know 
as  he  'd  live  from  one  hour  to  another. 

Miss  Lavender  aroused  the  Doctor,  then  dressed  herself 
in  haste,  and  prepared  to  accompany  him.  Martha,  awak 
ened  by  the  noise,  came  into  the  spinster's  room  in  her 
night-dress. 

"  Must  you  go,  Betsy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Child,  it 's  a  matter  o'  life  and  death,  more  likely  death ; 
and  Ann  's  a  dooless  critter  at  best,  hardly  ever  off  the 
place,  and  need  o'  Chris'en  help,  if  there  ever  was  such ; 
so  don't  ask  me  to  stay,  for  I  won't,  and  all  the  better  for 
me,  for  I  dares  n't  open  my  lips  to  livin'  soul  till  I  've 
spoke  with  Mary  Potter!" 

Miss  Lavender  took  the  foot-path  across  the  fields,  ac 
companied  by  Giles,  who  gave  up  his  saddled  horse  to  Dr. 
Deane.  The  dawn  was  brightening  in  the  sky  as  they 
reached  the  farm-house,  where  they  found  Alfred  Barton 
restlessly  walking  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  kitchen, 
while  Ann  and  Mr.  Stacy  were  endeavoring  to  apply  such 
scanty  restoratives  —  consisting  principally  of  lavender 
and  hot  bricks  —  as  the  place  afforded. 


356  THE  STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

An  examination  of  the  eyes  and  the  pulse,  and  a  last 
abortive  attempt  at  phlebotomy,  convinced  Dr.  Deane  that 
his  services  were  no  longer  needed.  Death,  which  so 
many  years  before  had  lamed  half  the  body,  now  asserted 
his  claim  to  the  whole.  A  wonderfully  persistent  principle 
of  vitality  struggled  against  the  clogged  functions,  for  two 
or  three  hours,  then  yielded,  and  the  small  fragment  of 
soul  in  the  old  man  was  cast  adrift,  with  little  chance  of 
finding  a  comfortable  lodging  in  any  other  world. 

Ann  wandered  about  the  kitchen  in  a  dazed  state,  drop 
ping  tears  everywhere,  and  now  and  then  moaning,  —  "0 
Betsy,  how  '11  I  ever  get  up  the  funeral  dinner  ?  "  while 
Alfred,  after  emptying-  the  square  bottle  of  brandy,  threw 
himself  upon  the  settle  and  went  to  sleep.  Mr.  Stacy  and 
Miss  Lavender,  who  seemed  to  know  each  other  thoroughly 
at  the  first  sight,  took  charge  of  all  the  necessary  arrange 
ments  ;  and  as  Alfred  had  said,  —  "7  can't  look  after  any 
thing  ;  do  as  you  two  like,  and  don't  spare  expense  ! " 
they  ordered  the  coffin,  dispatched  messengers  to  the  rela 
tives  and  neighbors,  and  soothed  Ann's  unquiet  soul  by  se 
lecting  the  material  for  the  dinner,  and  engaging  the  Uni 
corn's  cook. 

When  all  was  done,  late  in  the  day,  Miss  Lavender 
called  Giles  and  said,  —  "  Saddle  me  a  horse,  and  if  no 
side-saddle,  a  man's  '11  do,  for  go  I  must ;  it 's  business  o' 
my  own,  Mr.  Stacy,  and  won't  wait  for  me  ;  not  that  I  want 
to  do  more  this  day  than  what  I  've  done,  Goodness  knows ; 
but  I  '11  have  a  fit,  myself,  if  I  don't !  " 

She  reached  the  Potter  farm-house  at  dark,  and  both 
mother  and  son  were  struck  with  her  flushed,  excited,  and 
yet  weary  air.  Their  supper  was  over,  but  she  refused  to 
take  anything  more  than  a  cup  of  tea ;  her  speech  was 
forced,  and  more  rambling  and  disconnected  than  ever. 
When  Mary  Potter  left  the  kitchen  to  bring  some  fresh 
cream  from  the  spring-house,  Miss  Lavender  hastily  ap 
proached  Gilbert,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
said, — 


THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT.  357 

"  Lad,  be  good  this  once't,  and  do  what  I  tell  you.  Make 
a  reason  for  goin'  to  bed  as  soon  as  you  can  ;  for  I  've  been 
workin'  in  your  interest  all  this  while,  only  I  've  got  that  to 
tell  your  mother,  first  of  all,  which  you  must  n't  hear ;  and 
you  may  hope  as  much  as  you  please,  for  the  news  is  n't 
bad,  as  '11  soon  be  made  manifest !  " 

Gilbert  was  strangely  impressed  by  her  solemn,  earnest 
manner,  and  promised  to  obey.  He  guessed,  and  yet 
feared  to  believe,  that  the  long  release  of  which  his  mother 
had  spoken  had  come  at  last ;  how  else,  he  asked  himself, 
should  Miss  Lavender  become  possessed  of  knowledge 
which  seemed  so  important  ?  As  early  as  possible  he  went 
up  to  his  bedroom,  leaving  the  two  women  alone.  The 
sound  of  voices,  now  high  and  hurried,  now,  apparently, 
low  and  broken,  came  to  his  ears.  He  resisted  the  tempta 
tion  to  listen,  smothered  his  head  in  the  pillow  to  further 
muffle  the  sounds,  and  after  a  long,  restless  struggle  with 
his  own  mind,  fell  asleep.  Deep  in  the  night  he  was 
awakened  by  the  noise  of  a  shutting  door,  and  then  all  was 
still. 

It  was  very  evident,  in  the  morning,  that  he  had  not  mis 
calculated  the  importance  of  Miss  Lavender's  communica 
tion.  TVas  this  woman,  whose  face  shone  with  such  a  min 
gled  light  of  awe  and  triumph,  his  mother  ?  TTere  these 
features,  where  the  deep  lines  of  patience  were  softened 
into  curves  of  rejoicing,  the  dark,  smouldering  gleam  of 
sorrow  kindled  into  a  flashing  light  of  pride,  those  he  had 
known  from  childhood  ?  As  he  looked  at  her,  in  wonder 
renewed  with  every  one  of  her  movements  and  glances, 
she  took  him  by  the  hand  and  said,  — 

"Gilbert,  wait  a  little!" 

Miss  Lavender  insisted  on  having  breakfast  by  sunrise, 
and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  demanded  her  horse. 
Then  first  she  announced  the  fact  of  Old-man  Barton's 
death,  and  that  the  funeral  was  to  be  on  the  followino-  day. 

O  •> 

"  Mary,  you  must  be  sure  and  come,"  she  said,  as  she 


358  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

took  leave  ;  "  I  know  Ann  expects  it  of  you.  Ten  o'clock, 
remember ! " 

Gilbert  noticed  that  his  mother  laid  aside  her  sewing, 
and  when  the  ordinary  household  labor  had  been  per 
formed,  seated  herself  near  the  window  with  a  small  old 
Bible,  which  he  had  never  before  seen  in  her  hands. 
There  was  a  strange  fixedness  in  her  gaze,  as  if  only  her 
eyes,  not  her  thoughts,  were  directed  upon  its  pages.  The 
new  expression  of  her  face  remained  ;  it  seemed  already  to 
have  acquired  as  permanent  a  stamp  as  the  old.  Against 
his  will  he  was  infected  by  its  power,  and  moved  about  in 
barn  and  field  all  day  with  a  sense  of  the  unreality  of 
things,  which  was  very  painful  to  his  strong,  practical 
nature. 

The  day  of  the  old  man's  funeral  came.  Sam  led  up 
the  horses,  and  waited  at  the  gate  with  them  to  receive  his 
master's  parting  instructions.  Gilbert  remarked  with  sur 
prise  that  his  mother  placed  a  folded  paper  between  the 
leaves  of  the  Bible,  tied  the  book  carefully  in  a  linen  hand 
kerchief,  and  carried  it  with  her.  She  was  ready,  but  still 
hesitated,  looking  around  the  kitchen  with  the  manner  of 
one  who  had  forgotten  something.  Then  she  returned  to 
her  own  room,  and  after  some  minutes,  came  forth,  paler 
than  before,  but  proud,  composed,  and  firm. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  I  have  tried 
you  sorely,  and  you  have  been  wonderfully  kind  and  pa 
tient.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  anything  more  ;  I  could  tell 
you  everything  now,  but  this  is  not  the  place  nor  the  time  I 
had  thought  of,  for  so  many  years  past.  Will  you  let  me 
finish  the  work  in  the  way  pointed  out  to  me  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  he  answered,  "  I  cannot  judge  in  this  matter, 
knowing  nothing.  I  must  be  led  by  you ;  but,  pray,  do  not 
let  it  be  long  ?  " 

"  It  will  not  be  long,  my  boy,  or  I  would  n't  ask  it.  I 
have  one  more  duty  to  perform,  to  myself,  to  you,  and  to 
the  Lord,  and  it  must  be  done  in  the  sight  of  men.  Will 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  359 

you  stand  by  me,  not  question  my  words,  not  interfere  with 
my  actions,  however  strange  they  may  seem,  but  simply  be 
lieve  and  obey  ?  " 

"  I  will,  mother,"  he  said,  "  because  you  make  me  feel 
that  I  must." 

They  mounted,  and  side  by  side  rode  up  the  glen. 
Mary  Potter  was  silent ;  now  and  then  her  lips  moved,  not, 
as  once,  in  some  desperate  appeal  of  the  heart  for  pity  and 
help,  but  as  with  a  thanksgiving  so  profound  that  it  must 
needs  be  constantly  renewed,  to  be  credited. 

After  passing  Carson's,  they  took  the  shorter  way  across 
the  fields,  and  approached  the  Barton  farm-house  from 
below.  A  large  concourse  of  people  was  already  assem 
bled  ;  and  the  rude  black  hearse,  awaiting  its  burden  in 
the  lane,  spread  the  awe  and  the  gloom  of  death  over  the 
scene.  The  visitors  were  grouped  around  the  doors,  silent 
or  speaking  cautiously  in  subdued  tones ;  and  all  new-com 
ers  passed  into  the  house  to  take  their  last  look  at  the  face 
of  the  dead. 

The  best  room,  in  which  the  corpse  lay,  was  scarcely 
used  once  in  a  year,  and  many  of  the  neighbors  had  never 
before  had  occasion,  to  enter  it.  The  shabby,  antiquated 
furniture  looked  cold  and  dreary  from  disuse,  and  the  smell 
of  camphor  in  the  air  hardly  kept  down  the  musty,  mouldy 
odors  which  exhaled  from  the  walls.  The  head  and  foot 
of  the  coffin  rested  on  two  chairs  placed  in  the  centre  of 
the  room ;  and  several  women,  one  of  whom  was  Miss 
Betsy  Lavender,  conducted  the  visitors  back  and  forth,  as 
they  came.  The  members  of  the  bereaved  family  were 
stiffly  ranged  around  the  walls,  the  chief  mourners  consist 
ing  of  the  old  man's  eldest  son,  Elisha,  with  his  wife  and 
three  married  oons,  Alfred,  and  Ann. 

Mary  Potter  took  her  son's  arm,  and  they  passed 
through  the  throng  at  the  door,  and  entered  the  house. 
Gilbert  silently  returned  the  nods  of  greeting ;  his  mother 
neither  met  nor  avoided  the  eyes  of  others.  Her  step  was 


360  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

firm,  her  head  erect,  her  bearing  full  of  pride  and  decision. 
Miss  Lavender,  who  met  her  with  a  questioning  glance  at 
the  door,  walked  beside  her  to  the  room  of  death,  and  then 
—  what  was  remarkable  in  her  —  became  very  pale. 
f  They  stood  by  the  coffin.  It  was  not  a  peaceful,  solemn 
sight,  that  yellow  face,  with  its  wrinkles  and  creases  and 
dark  blotches  of  congealed  blood,  made  more  pronounced 
and  ugly  by  the  white  shroud  and  cravat,  yet  a  tear  rolled 
down  Mary  Potter's  cheek  as  she  gazed  upon  it.  Other 
visitors  came,  and  Gilbert  gently  drew  her  away,  to  leave 
the  room  ;  but  with  a  quick  pressure  upon  his  arm,  as  if  to 
remind  him  of  his  promise,  she  quietly  took  her  seat  near 
the  mourners,  and  by  a  slight  motion  indicated  that  he 
should  seat  himself  at  her  side. 

It  was  an  unexpected  and  painful  position  ;  but  her  face, 
firm  and  calm,  shamed  his  own  embarrassment.  He  saw, 
nevertheless,  that  the  grief  of  the  mourners  was  not  so  pro 
found  as  to  suppress  the  surprise,  if  not  indignation,  which 
the  act  called  forth.  The  women  had  their  handkerchiefs 
to  their  eyes,  and  were  weeping  in  a  slow,  silent,  mechanical 
way ;  the  men  had  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands,  but  their 
faces  were  hard,  apathetic,  and  constrained. 

By-and-by  the  visitors  ceased ;  the  attending  women 
exchanged  glances  with  each  other  and  with  the  mourners, 
and  one  of  the  former  stepped  up  to  Mary  Potter  and  said 
gently,  — 

"  It  is  only  the  family,  now." 

This  was  according  to  custom,  which  required  that  just 
before  the  coffin  was  closed,  the  members  of  the  family  of 
the  deceased  should  be  left  alone  with  him  for  a  few  min 
utes,  and  take  their  farewell  of  his  face,  undisturbed  by 
other  eyes.  Gilbert  would  have  risen,  but  his  mother,  with 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  quietly  replied,  — 

"  We  belong  to  the  family." 

The  woman  withdrew,  though  with  apparent  doubt  and 
hesitation,  and  they  were  left  alone  with  the  mourners. 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  361 

Gilbert  could  scarcely  trust  his  senses. .  A  swift  suspi 
cion  of  his  mother's  insanity  crossed  his  mind  ;  but  when 
he  looked  around  the  room  and  beheld  Alfred  Barton  gaz 
ing  upon  her  with  a  face  more  livid  than  that  of  the  dead 
man.  this  suspicion  was  followed  by  another,  no  less  over 
whelming.  For  a  few  minutes  everything  seemed  to  whirl 
and  spin  before  his  eyes ;  a  light  broke  upon  him.  but  so 
unexpected,  so  incredible,  that  it  came  with  the  force  of  a 
blow. 

The  undertaker  entered  the  room  and  screwed  down  the 
lid  of  the  coffin ;  the  pall-bearers  followed  and  carried  it 
to  the  hearse.  Then  the  mourners  rose  and  prepared  to 
set  forth,  in  the  order  of  their  relation  to  the  deceased. 
Elisha  Barton  led  the  way,  with  his  wife  ;  then  Ann,  clad 
in  her  Sunday  black,  stepped  forward  to  take  Alfred's 
arm. 

"  Ann,"  said  Mary  Potter,  in  a  low  voice,  which  yet  was 
heard  by  every  person  in  the  room,  "  that  is  my  place/' 

She  left  Gilbert  and  moved  to  Alfred  Barton's  side. 
Then,  slightly  turning,  she  said,  —  "  Gilbert,  give  your  arm 
to  your  aunt." 

For  a  full  minute  no  other  word  was  said.  Alfred  Bar 
ton  stood  motionless,  with  Mary  Potter's  hand  on  his  arm. 
A  fiery  flush  succeeded  to  his  pallor  ;  his  jaw  fell,  and  his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  floor.  Ann  took  Gilbert's  arm  in 
a  helpless,  bewildered  way. 

"  Alfred,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  "  Elisha  finally  asked. 

He  said  nothing ;  Mary  Potter  answered  for  him,  —  "  It 
is  right  that  he  should  walk  with  his  wife  rather  than  his 
sister." 

The  horses  and  chairs  were  waiting  in  the  lane,  and 
helping  neighbors  were  at  the  door ;  but  the  solemn  occa 
sion  was  forgotten,  in  the  shock  produced  by  this  announce 
ment.  Gilbert  started  and  almost  reeled  ;  Ann  clung  to 
him  with  helpless  terror  ;  and  only  Elisha,  whose  face  grew 
dark  and  threatening,  answered. 


362  THE  STOEY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Woman,"  he  said,  "  you  are  out  of  your  senses  !  *  Leave 
us  ;  you  have  no  business  here  !  " 

She  met  him  with  a  proud,  a  serene  and  steady  counte 
nance.  "  Elisha,"  she  answered,  "  we  are  here  to  bury  your 
father  and  my  father-in-law.  Let  be  until  the  grave  has 
closed  over  him ;  then  ask  Alfred  whether  I  could  dare 
to  take  my  rightful  place  before  to-day." 

The  solemn  decision  of  her  face  and  voice  struck  him 
dumb.  His  wife  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear,  and  he 
turned  away  with  her,  to  take  his  place  in  the  funeral  pro 
cession. 

It  was  Alfred  Barton's  duty  to  follow,  and  if  it  was  not 
grief  which  impelled  him  to  bury  his  face  in  his  handker 
chief  as  they  issued  from  the  door,  it  was  a  torture  keener 
than  was  ever  mingled  with  grief,  —  the  torture  of  a  mean 
nature,  pilloried  in  its  meanest  aspect  for  the  public  gaze. 
Mary,  (we  must  not  call  her  Potter,  and  cannot  yet  call 
her  Barton,)  rather  led  him  than  was  led  by  him,  and  lifted 
her  face  to  the  eyes  of  men.  The  shame  which  she  might 
have  felt,  as  his  wife,  was  lost  in  the  one  overpowering 
sense  of  the  justification  for  which  she  had  so  long  waited 
and  suffered. 

When  the  pair  appeared  in  the  yard,  and  Gilbert  followed 
with  Miss  Ann  Barton  on  his  arm,  most  of  the  funeral 
guests  looked  on  in  stupid  wonder,  unable  to  conceive  the 
reason  of  the  two  thus  appearing  among  the  mourners. 
But  when  they  had  mounted  and  were  moving  off,  a  rumor 
of  the  startling  truth  ran  from  lip  to  lip.  The  proper  order 
of  the  procession  was  forgotten  ;  some  untied  their  horses 
in  haste  and  pushed  forward  to  convince  themselves  of  the 
astonishing  fact ;  others  gathered  into  groups  and  discussed 
it  earnestly.  Some  had  suspected  a  relation  of  the  kind,  all 
along,  so  they  said ;  others  scouted  at  the  story,  and  were 
ready  with  explanations  of  their  own.  But  not  a  soul  had 
another  thought  to  spare  for  Old-man  Barton  that  day. 

Dr.  Deane  and  Martha  heard  what  had  happened  as 


THE   STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  363 

they  were  mounting  their  horses.  When  they  took  their 
places  in  the  line,  the  singular  companionship,  behind  the 
hearse,  was  plainly  visible.  Neither  spoke  a  word,  but 
Martha  felt  that  her  heart  was  beating  fast,  and  that  her 
thoughts  were  unsteady. 

Presently  Miss  Lavender  rode  up  and  took  her  place  at 
her  side.  Tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes,  and  she 
was  using  her  handkerchief  freely.  It  was  sometime  be 
fore  she  could  command  her  feelings  enough  to  say,  in  a 
husky  whisper,  — 

"I  never  thought  to  ha'  had  a  hand  in  such  wonderful 
doin's,  and  how  I  held  up  through  it,  I  can't  tell.  Glory 
to  the  Lord,  the  end  has  come ;  but,  no  —  not  yet  — 
not  quite  ;  only  enough  for  one  day,  Martha ;  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"Betsy,"  said  Martha,  "please  ride  a  little  closer,  and 
explain  to  me  how  it  came  about.  Give  me  one  or  two 
points  for  my  mind  to  rest  on,  for  I  don't  seem  to  believe 
even  what  I  see." 

-  What  I  see.  No  wonder,  who  could  ?  Well,  it 's 
enough  that  Mary  was  married  to  Alf.  Barton  a  matter 
o'  twenty-six  year  ago,  and  that  he  swore  her  to  keep  it 
secret  till  th'  old  man  died,  and  he  's  been  her  husband 
all  this  while,  and  knowed  it !  " 

"  Father ! "  Martha  exclaimed  in  a  low,  solemn  voice, 
turning  to  Dr.  Deane,  "  think,  now,  what  it  was  thee  would 
have  had  me  do  !  " 

The  Doctor  was  already  aware  of  his  terrible  mistake. 
"  Thee  was  led,  child,"  he  answered,  "  thee  was  led !  It 
was  a  merciful  Providence." 

"  Then  might  thee  not  also  admit  that  I  have  been  led 
in  that  other  respect,  which  has  been  so  great  a  trial  to 
thee  ?  " 

He  made  no  reply. 

The  road  to  Old  Kennett  never  'seemed  so  long  ;  never 
was  a  corpse  so  impatiently  followed.  A  sense  of  decency 
restrained  those  who  were  not  relatives  from  pushing  in 


364  THE   STORY  OF  KENNEIT. 

advance  of  those  who  were ;  yet  it  was  very  tantalizing  to 
look  upon  the  backs  of  Alfred  Barton  and  Mary,  Gilbert 
and  Ann,  when  their  faces  must  be  such  a  sight  to  see  ! 

These  four,  however,  rode  in  silence.  Each,  it  may  be 
guessed,  was  sufficiently  occupied  with  his  or  her  own  sen 
sations,  —  except,  perhaps,  Ann  Barton,  who  had  been 
thrown  so  violently  out  of  her  quiet,  passive  round  of  life 
by  her  father's  death,  that  she  was  incapable  of  any  great 
surprise.  Her  thoughts  were  more  occupied  with  the 
funeral-dinner,  yet  to  come,  than  with  the  relationship 
of  the  young  man  at  her  side. 

Gilbert  slowly  admitted  the  fact  into  his  mind,  but  he 
was  so  unprepared  for  it  by  anything  in  his  mother's  life 
or  his  own  intercourse  with  Alfred  Barton,  that  he  was 
lost  in  a  maze  of  baffled  conjectures.  While  this  confu 
sion  lasted,  he  scarcely  thought  of  his  restoration  to  honor, 
or  the  breaking  down  of  that  fatal  barrier  between  him 
and  Martha  Deane.  » His  first  sensation  was  one  of  humilia 
tion  and  disappointment.  How  often  had  he  been  disgusted 
with  Alfred  Barton's  meanness  and  swagger !  How  much 
superior,  in  many  of  the  qualities  of  manhood,  was  even 
the  highwayman,  whose  paternity  he  had  so  feared !  As 
he  looked  at  the  broad,  heavy  form  before  him,  in  which 
even  the  lines  of  the  back  expressed  cowardice  and  abject 
shame,  he  almost  doubted  whether  his  former  disgrace 
was  not  preferable  to  his  present  claim  to  respect. 

Then  his  eyes  turned  to  his  mother's  figure,  and  a  sweet, 
proud  joy  swept  away  the  previous  emotion.  Whatever 
the  acknowledged  relationship  might  be  to  him,  to  her  it 
was  honor  —  yea,  more  than  honor ;  for  by  so  much  and 
so  cruelly  as  she  had  fallen  below  the  rights  of  her  pure 
name  as  a  woman,  the  higher  would  she  now  be  set,  not 
only  in  respect,  but  in  the  reverence  earned  by  her  saintly 
patience  and  self-denial.  The  wonderful  transformation 
of  her  face  showed  him  what  this  day  was  to  her  life, 
and  he  resolved  that  no  disappointment  of  his  own  should 
come  between  her  and  her  triumph. 


THE   STORY   OF   KENXETT.  365 

To  Gilbert  the  way  was  not  too  long,  nor  the  progress 
too  slow.  It  gave  him  time  to  grow  familiar,  not  only  with 
the  fact,  but  with  his  duty.  He  forcibly  postponed  his 
wandering  conjectures,  and  compelled  his  mind  to  dwell 
upon  that  which  lay  immediately  before  him. 

It  was  nearly  noon  before  the  hearse  reached  Old  Ken- 
nett  meeting-house.  The  people  of  the  neighborhood, 
who  had  collected  to  await  its  arrival,  came  forward  and 
assisted  the  mourners  to  alight.  Alfred  Barton  mechan 
ically  took  his  place  beside  his  wife,  but  again  buried  his 
face  in  his  handkerchief.  As  the  wondering,  impatient 
crowd  gathered  around,  Gilbert  felt  that  all  was  known, 
and  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  himself  and  his  mother, 
and  his  face  reflected  her  own  firmness  and  strength. 
From  neither  could  the  spectators  guess  what  might  be 
passing  in  their  hearts.  They  were  both  paler  than  usual, 
and  their  resemblance  to  each  other  became  very  striking. 
Gilbert,  in  fact,  seemed  to  have  nothing  of  his  father  ex 
cept  the  peculiar  turn  of  his  shoulders  and  the  strong  build 
of  his  chest. 

They  walked  over  the  grassy,  briery,  unmarked  mounds 
of  old  graves  to  the  spot  where  a  pile  of  yellow  earth  de 
noted  Old  Barton's  resting-place.  TThen  the  coffin  had 
been  lowered,  his  children,  in  accordance  with  custom, 
drew  near,  one  after  the  other,  to  bend  over  and  look  into 
the  narrow  pit.  Gilbert  led  up  his  trembling  aunt,  who 
might  have  fallen  in,  had  he  not  carefully  supported  her. 
As  he  was  withdrawing,  his  eyes  suddenly  encountered 
those  of  Martha  Deane,  who  was  standing  opposite,  in  the 
circle  of  hushed  spectators.  In  spite  of  himself  a  light 
color  shot  into  his  face,  and  his  lips  trembled.  The  eager 
gossips,  who  had  not  missed  even  the  wink  of  an  eyelid, 
saw  this  fleeting  touch  of  emotion,  and  whence  it  came. 
Thenceforth  Martha  shared  their  inspection  ;  but  from  the 
sweet  gravity  of  her  face,  the  untroubled  calm  of  her  eyes, 
they  learned  nothing  more. 


366  THE   STORY   OF  KENTNETT. 

When  the  .grave  had  been  filled,  and  the  yellow  mound 
ridged  and  patted  with  the  spade,  the  family  returned  to 
the  grassy  space  in  front  of  the  meeting-house,  and  now 
their  more  familiar  acquaintances,  and  many  who  were 
not,  gathered  around  to  greet  them  and  offer  words  of 
condolence.  An  overpowering  feeling  of  curiosity  was 
visible  upon  every  face  ;  those  who  did  not  venture  to  use 
their  tongues,  used  their  eyes  the  more. 

Alfred  Barton  was  forced  to  remove  the  handkerchief 
from  his  face,  and  its  haggard  wretchedness  (which  no 
one  attributed  to  grief  for  his  father's  death),  could  no 
longer  be  hidden.  He  appeared  to  have  suddenly  become 
an  old  man,  with  deeper  wrinkles,  slacker  muscles,  and  a 
helpless,  tottering  air  of  weakness.  The  corners  of  his 
mouth  drooped,  hollowing  his  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  seemed 
unable  to  bear  up  the  weight  of  the  lids ;  they  darted 
rapidly  from  side  to  side,  or  sought  the  ground,  not  daring 
to  encounter,  for  more  than  an  instant,  those  of  others. 

There  was  no  very  delicate  sense  of  propriety  among 
the  people,  and  very  soon  an  inquisitive  old  Quaker  re 
marked,  — 

"  Why,  Mary,  is  this  true  that  I  hear  ?  Are  you  two 
man  and  wife  ?  " 

"  We  are,"  she  said. 

"  Bless  us  !  how  did  it  happen  ?  " 

The  bystanders  became  still  as  death,  and  all  ears  were 
stretched  to  catch  the  answer.  But  she,  with  proud,  im 
penetrable  calmness,  replied,  — 

*'  It  will  be  made  known." 

And  with  these  words  the  people  were  forced,  that  day, 
to  be  satisfied. 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  367 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE    WILL. 

DURIXG  the  homeward  journey  from  the  grave,  Gilbert 
and  his  mother  were  still  the  central  figures  of  interest. 
That  the  members  of  the  Barton  family  were  annoyed  and 
humiliated,  was  evident  to  all  eyes ;  but  it  was  a  pitiful, 
undignified  position,  which  drew  no  sympathy  towards  them, 
while  the  proud,  composed  gravity  of  the  former  com 
manded  respect.  The  young  men  and  women,  especially, 
were  unanimously  of  the  opinion  that  Gilbert  had  conducted 
himself  like  a  man.  They  were  disappointed,  it  was  true, 
that  he  and  Martha  Deane  had  not  met,  in  the  sight  of  all. 
It  was  impossible  to  guess  whether  she  had  been  already 
aware  of  the  secret,  or  how  the  knowledge  of  it  would  affect 
their  romantic  relation  to  each  other. 

Could  the  hearts  of  the  lovers  have  been  laid  bare,  the 
people  would  have  seen  that  never  had  each  felt  such  need 
of  the  other,  —  never  had  they  been  possessed  with  such 
restless  yearning.  To  the  very  last,  Gilbert's  eyes  wan 
dered  from  time  to  time  towards  the  slender  figure  in  the 
cavalcade  before  him,  hoping  for  the  chance  of  a  word  or 
look  ;  but  Martha's  finer  instinct  told  her  that  she  must  yet 
hold  herself  aloof.  She  appreciated  the  solemnity  of  :he 
revelation,  saw  that  much  was  yet  unexplained,  and  could 
have  guessed,  even  without  Miss  Lavender's  mysterious 
hints,  that  the  day  would  bring  forth  other  and  more  im 
portant  disclosures. 

As  the  procession  drew  nearer  Kennett  Square,  the  curi 
osity  of  the  funeral  guests,  baulked  and  yet  constantly  stim- 


368  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

ulated,  began  to  grow  disorderly.  Sally  Fairthorn  was  in 
such  a  flutter  that  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  said  or  did ; 
Mark's  authority  alone  prevented  her  from  dashing  up  to 
Gilbert,  regardless  of  appearances.  The  old  men,  especially 
those  in  plain  coats  and  broad-brimmed  hats,  took  every 
opportunity  to  press  near  the  mourners  ;  and  but  for  Miss 
Betsy  Lavender,  who  hovered  around  the  latter  like  a 
watchful  dragon,  both  Gilbert  and  his  mother  would  have 
been  seriously  annoyed.  Finally  the  gate  at  the  lane-end 
closed  upon  them,  and  the  discomfited  public  rode  on  to 
the  village,  tormented  by  keen  envy  of  the  few  who  had 
been  bidden  to  the  funeral-dinner. 

When  Mary  alighted  from  her  horse,  the  old  lawyer 
approached  her. 

u  My  name  is  Stacy,  Mrs.  Barton,"  he  said,  "  and  Miss 
Lavender  will  have  told  you  who  I  am.  Will  you  let  me 
have  a  word  with  you  in  private  ?  " 

She  slightly  started  at  the  name  he  had  given  her ;  it 
was  the  first  symptom  of  agitation  she  had  exhibited.  He 
took  her  aside,  and  began  talking  earnestly  in  a  low  tone. 
Elisha  Barton  looked  on  with  an  amazed,  troubled  air,  and 
presently  turned  to  his  brother. 

"  Alfred,"  he  said,  "  it  is  quite  time  all  this  was  ex 
plained." 

But  Miss  Lavender  interfered. 

"  It 's  your  right,  Mr.  Elisha,  no  denyin'  that,  and  the 
right  of  all  the  fam'ly ;  so  we  've  agreed  to  .have  it  done 
afore  all  together,  in  the  lawful  way,  Mr.  Stacy  bein'  a 
lawyer ;  but  dinner  first,  if  you  please,  for  eatin'  's  good 
both  for  grief  and  cur'osity,  and  it 's  hard  tellin'  which  is 
uppermost  in  this  case.  Gilbert,  come  here  ! " 

He  was  standing  alone,  beside  the  paling.  He  obeyed 
her  call. 

"  Gilbert,  shake  hands  with  your  uncle  and  aunt.  Mr. 
Elisha,  this  is  your  nephew,  Gilbert  Barton,  Mr.  Alfred's 
son." 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  369 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  There  was 
that  in  Gilbert's  face  which  enforced  respect  Contrasted 
with  his  father,  who  stood  on  one  side,  darting  stealthy 
glances  at  the  group  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  his  bear 
ing  was  doubly  brave  and  noble.  He  offered  his  hand  in 
silence,  and  both  Elisha  Barton  and  his  wife  felt  them 
selves  compelled  to  take  it.  Then  the  three  sons,  who 
knew  the  name  of  Gilbert  Potter,  and  were  more  astonished 
than  shocked  at  the  new  relationship,  came  up  and  greeted 
their  cousin  in  a  grave  but  not  unfriendly  way. 

'•  That 's  right ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Lavender.  "  And  now 
come  in  to  dinner,  all  o'  ye !  I  gev  orders  to  have  the 
meats  dished  as  soon  as  the  first  horse  was  seen  over  the 
rise  o'  the  hill,  and  it  '11  all  be  smokin'  on  the  table." 

Though  the  meal  was  such  as  no  one  had  ever  before 
seen  in  the  Barton  farm-house,  it  was  enjoyed  by  very  few 
of  the  company.  The  sense  of  something  to  come  after  it 
made  them  silent  and  uncomfortable.  Mr.  Stacy,  Miss 
Lavender,  and  the  sons  of  Elisha  Barton,  with  their  wives, 
carried  on  a  scattering,  forced  conversation,  and  there  was 
a  general  feeling  of  relief  when  the  pies,  marmalade,  and 
cheese  had  been  consumed,  and  the  knives  and  forks  laid 
crosswise  over  the  plates. 

When  they  arose  from  the  table,  Mr.  Stacy  led  the  way 
into  the  parlor.  A  fire,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  made 
in  the  chill,  open  fireplace,  but  it  scarcely  relieved  the 
dreary,  frosty  aspect  of  the  apartment.  The  presence  of 
the  corpse  seemed  to  linger  there,  attaching  itself  with 
ghastly  distinctness  to  the  chair  and  hickory  staff  in  a 
corner. 

The  few  dinner-guests  who  were  not  relatives  understood 
that  this  meeting  excluded  them,  and  Elisha  Barton  was 
therefore  surprised  to  notice,  after  they  had  taken  their 
seats,  that  Miss  Lavender  was  one  of  the  company. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  with  a  significant  look,  ".  that  it  was 
to  be  the  family  only." 
24 


370  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Miss  Lavender  is  one  of  the  witnesses  to  the  will,"  Mr.<. 
Stacy  answered,  "  and  her  presence  is  necessary,  moreover, 
as  an  important  testimony  in  regard  to  some  of  its  pro 
visions.  " 

Alfred  Barton  and  Gilbert  both  started  at  these  words, 
but  from  very  different  feelings.  The  former,  released  from 
public  scrutiny,  already  experienced  a  comparative  degree 
of  comfort,  and  held  up  his  head  with  an  air  of  courage  ; 
yet  now  the  lawyer's  announcement  threw  him  into  an 
agitation  which  it  was  not  possible  to  conceal.  Miss  Lav 
ender  looked  around  the  circle,  coolly  nodded  her  head  to 
Elisha  Barton,  and  said  nothing. 

Mr.  Stacy  arose,  unlocked  a  small  niche  let  into  the  wall 
of  the  house,  and  produced  the  heavy  oaken  casket  in  which 
the  old  man  kept  the  documents  relating  to  his  property. 
This  he  placed  upon  a  small  table  beside  his  chair,  opened 
it,  and  took  out  the  topmost  paper.  He  was  completely 
master  of  the  situation,  and  the  deliberation  with  which  he 
surveyed  the  circle  of  excited  faces  around  him  seemed  to 
indicate  that  he  enjoyed  the  fact. 

"  The  last  will  and  testament  of  Abiah  Barton,  made  the 
day  before  his  death,"  he  said,  "  revokes  all  former  wills, 
which  were  destroyed  by  his  order,  in  the  presence  of  my 
self  and  Miss  Elizabeth  Lavender." 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  spinster,  who  again 
nodded,  with  a  face  of  preternatural  solemnity. 

"  In  order  that  you,  his  children  and  grandchildren," 
Mr.  Stacy  continued,  "may  rightly  understand  the  de 
ceased's  intention  in  making  this  last  will,  when  the  time 
comes  for  me  to  read  it,  I  must  first  inform  you  that  he  was 
acquainted  with  the  fact  of  his  son  Alfred's  marriage  with 
Mary  Potter." 

Alfred  Barton  half  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  then  fell 
back  with  the  same  startled,  livid  face,  which  Gilbert  al 
ready  knew.  The  others  held  their  breath  in  suspense, — 
except  Mary,  who  sat  near  the  lawyer,  firm,  cold,  and  un 
moved. 


THE   STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  371 

"  The  marriage  of  Alfred  Barton  and  Mary  Potter  must 
therefore  be  established,  to  your  satisfaction,"  Mr.  Stacy 
resumed,  turnin^  towards  Elisha.  "  Alfred  Barton,  I  ask 

& 

you  to  declare  whether  this  woman  is  your  lawfully  wedded 
wife  ?  " 

A  sound  almost  like  a  groan  came  from  his  throat,  but  it 
formed  the  syllable,  —  "  Yes." 

••  Further,  I  ask  you  to  declare  whether  Gilbert  Barton, 
who  has  until  this  clay  borne  his  mother's  name  of  Potter, 
is  your  lawfully  begotten  son  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"To  complete  the  evidence,"  said  the  lawyer,  "Mary 
Barton,  give  me  the  paper  in  your  hands." 

She  untied  the  handkerchief,  opened  the  Bible,  and 
handed  Mr.  Stacy  the  slip  of  paper  which  Gilbert  had  seen 
her  place  between  the  leaves  that  morning.  The  lawyer 
gave  it  to  Elisha  Barton,  with  the  request  that  he  would 
read  it  aloud. 

It  was  the  certificate  of  a  magistrate  at  Burlington,  in 
the  Colony  of  Xew  Jersey,  setting  forth  that  he  had  united 
in  wedlock  Alfred  Barton  and  Mary  Potter.  The  date  was 
in  the  month  of  June.  1771. 

••  This  paper,"  said  Elisha.  when  he  had  finished  reading. 
"  appears  to  be  genuine.  The  evidence  .must  have  been 
satisfactory  to  you,  Mr.  Stacy,  and  to  my  father,  since  it 
appears  to  have  been  the  cause  of  his  making  a  new  will ; 
but  as  this  new  will  probably  concerns  me  and  my  children, 
I  demand  to  know  why,  if  the  marriage  was  legal,  it  has 
been  kept  secret  so  long  ?  The  fact  of  the  marriage  does 
not  explain  what  has  happened  to-day." 

Mr.  Stacy  turned  towards  Gilbert's  mother,  and  made  a 
sign. 

••  Shall  I  explain  it  in  my  way,  Alfred  ?  "  she  asked,  "  or 
will  you,  in  yours  ?  " 

;-  There  's  but  one  story,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  guess  it 
falls  to  your  place  to  tell  it." 


372  THE  STORY  OF    KENNETT. 

"  It  does  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You,  Elisha  and  Ann,  and 
you,  Gilbert,  my  child,  take  notice  that  every  word  of  what 
I  shall  say  is  the  plain  God's  truth.  Twenty-seven  years 
ago,  when  I  was  a  young  woman  of  twenty,  I  came  to  this 
farm  to  help  Ann  with  the  house-work.  You  remember  it, 
Ann  ;  it  was  just  after  your  mother's  death.  I  was  poor  ; 
I  had  neither  father  nor  mother,  but  I  was  as  proud  as  the 
proudest,  and  the  people  called  me  good-looking.  You 
were  vexed  with  me,  Ann,  because  the  young  men  came 
now  and  then,  of  a  Sunday  afternoon ;  but  I  put  up  with 
your  bard  words.  You  did  not  know  that  I  understood 
what  Alfred's  eyes  meant  when  he  looked  at  me  ;  I  put  up 
with  you  because  I  believed  I  could  be  mistress  of  the 
house,  in  your  place.  You  have  had  your  revenge  of  me 
since,  if  you  felt  the  want  of  it  —  so  let  that  rest ! " 

She  paused.  Ann,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
sobbed  out,  — "  Mary,  I  always  liked  you  better  'n  you 
thought." 

"  I  can  believe  it,"  she  continued,  "  for  I  have  been  forced 
to  look  into  my  heart  and  learn  how  vain  and  mistaken  I 
then  was.  But  I  liked  Alfred,  in  those  days  ;  he  was  a  gay 
young  man,  and  accounted  good-looking,  and  there  were 
merry  times  just  before  the  war,  and  he  used  to  dress 
bravely,  and  was  talked  about  as  likely  to  marry  this  girl 
or  that.  My  head  was  full  of  him,  and  I  believed  my  heart 
was.  I  let  him  see  from  the  first  that  it  must  be  honest 
love  between  us,  or  not  at  all ;  and  the  more  I  held  back, 
the  more  eager  was  he,  till  others  began  to  notice,  and  the 
matter  was  brought  to  his  father's  ears." 

"  I  remember  that ! "  cried  Elisha,  suddenly. 

"  Yet  it  was  kept  close,"  she  resumed.  "  Alfred  told  me 
that  the  old  man  had  threatened  to  cut  him  out  of  his  will 
if  he  should  marry  me,  and  I  saw  that  I  must  leave  the 
farm  ;  but  I  gave  out  that  I  was  tired  of  the  country,  and 
wanted  to  find  service  in  Philadelphia.  I  believed  that 
Alfred  would  follow  me  in  a  week  or  two,  and  he  did.  He 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXNETT.  373 

brought  news  I  did  n't  expect,  and  it  turned  my  head  up 
side  down.  His  father  had  had  a  paralytic  stroke,  and 
nobody  believed  he  'd  live  more  than  a  few  weeks.  It  was 
in  the  beginning  of  June,  and  the  doctors  said  he  could  n't 
get  over  the  hot  weather.  Alfred  said  to  me,  Why  wait  ?  — 
you  '11  be  taking  up  with  some  city  fellow,  and  I  want  you 
to  be  my  wife  at  once.  On  my  side  1  thought,  Let  him  be 
made  rich  and  free  by  his  father's  death,  and  wives  will  be 
thrown  in  his  way ;  he  '11  lose  his  liking  for  me,  by  little 
and  little,  and  somebody  else  will  be  mistress  of  the  farm. 
So  I  agreed,  and  we  went  to  Burlington  together,  as  being 
more  out  of  the  way  and  easier  to  be  kept  secret ;  but  just 
before  we  came  to  the  Squire's,  he  seemed  to  grow  fearsome 
all  at  once,  lest  it  should  be  found  out,  and  he  bought  a 
Bible  and  swore  me  by  my  soul's  salvation  never  to  say  I 
was  married  to  him  until  after  his  father  died.  Here  's  the 
Bible,  Alfred  !  Do  you  remember  it  ?  Here,  here  's  the 
place  where  I  kissed  it  when  I  took  the  oath  ! " 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  held  it  towards  him.  No 
one  could  doubt  the  solemn  truth  of  her  words.  He  nodded 
his  head  mechanically,  unable  to  speak.  Still  standing, 
she  turned  towards  Elisha  Barton,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  He  took  the  same  oath,  but  what  did  it  mean  to  him  ! 
"What  does  it  mean  to  a  man  ?  I  was  young  and  vain  ;  I 
thought  only  of  holding  fast  to  my  good  luck  !  I  never 
thought  of — of" —  (here  her  faced  flushed,  and  her  voice 
began  to  tremble)  —  "  of  you,  Gilbert !  I  fed  my  pride 
by  hoping  for  a  man's  death,  and  never  dreamed  I  was 
bringing  a  curse  on  a  life  that  was  yet  to  come  !  Perhaps 
he  did  n't  then,  either ;  the  Lord  pardon  me  if  I  judge 
him  too  hard.  What  I  charge  him  with,  is  that  he  held 
me  to  my  oath,  when  —  when  the  fall  went  by  and  the 
winter,  and  his  father  lived,  and  his  son  was  to  be  born ! 
It  was  always  the  same,  —  Wait  a  little,  a  month  or  so, 
maybe ;  the  old  man  could  n't  live,  and  it  was  the  differ 
ence  between  riches  and  poverty  for  us.  Then  I  begged 


374:  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

for  poverty  and  my  good  name,  and  after  that  he  kept 
away  from  me.  Before  Gilbert  was  born,  I  hoped  I  might 
die  in  giving  him  life  ;  then  I  felt  that  I  must  live  for  his 
sake.  I  saw  my  sin,  and  what  punishment  the  Lord  had 
measured  out  to  me,  and  that  I  must  earn  His  forgiveness ; 
and  He  mercifully  hid  from  my  sight  the  long  path  that 
leads  to  this  day ;  for  if  the  release  had  n't  seemed  so  near, 
I  never  could  have  borne  to  wait !  " 

All  the  past  agony  of  her  life  seemed  to  discharge  itself 
in  these  words.  They  saw  what  the  woman  had  suffered, 
what  wonderful  virtues  of  patience  and  faith  had  been  de 
veloped  from  the  vice  of  her  pride,  and  there  was  no  heart 
in  the  company  so  stubborn  as  to  refuse  her  honor.  Gil 
bert's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face  with  an  absorbing  ex 
pression  of  reverence ;  he  neither  knew  nor  heeded  that 
there  were  tears  on  his  cheeks.  The  women  wept  in 
genuine  emotion,  and  even  the  old  lawyer  was  obliged  to 
wipe  his  dimmed  spectacles. 

Elisha  rose,  and  approaching  Alfred,  asked,  in  a  voice 
which  he  strove  to  make  steady,  —  "  Is  all  this  true  ?  " 

Alfred  sank  his  head  ;  his  reply  was  barely  audible,  — 

"  She  has  said  no  more  than  the  truth." 

"  Then,"  said  Elisha,  taking  her  hand,  "  I  accept  you, 
Mary  Barton,  and  acknowledge  your  place  in  our  family." 

Elisha's  wife  followed,  and  embraced  her  with  many 
tears,  and  lastly  Ann,  who  hung  totteringly  upon  her 
shoulder  as  she  cried,  — 

"  Indeed,  Mary,  indeed  I  always  liked  you ;  I  never 
wished  you  any  harm  ! " 

Thus  encouraged,  Alfred  Barton  made  a  powerful  effort. 
There  seemed  but  one  course  for  him  to  take ;  it  was  a 
hard  one,  but  he  took  it. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  you  have  full  right  and  justice  on 
your  side.  I  Ve  acted  meanly  towards  you  —  meaner,  I  'm 
afraid,  than  any  man  before  ever  acted  towards  his  wife. 
Not'  only  to  you,  but  to  Gilbert ;  but  I  always  meant  to 


THE   STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  375 

do  my  duty  in  the  end.  I  waited  from  month  to  month, 
and  year  to  year,  as  you  did ;  and  then  things  got  set  in 
their  way,  and  it  was  harder  and  harder  to  let  out  the 
truth.  I  comforted  myself —  that  was  n't  right,  either,  I 
know,  —  but  I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought  that  you 
were  doing  well ;  I  never  lost  sight  of  you,  and  I  've  been 
proud  of  Gilbert,  though  I  did  n't  dare  show  it,  and  al 
ways  wanted  to  lend  him  a  helping  hand,  if  he  'd  let  me." 

She  drew  herself  up  and  faced  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  How  did  you  mean  to  do  your  duty  by  me  ?  How  did 
you  mean  to  lend  Gilbert  a  helping  hand  ?  Was  it  by 
trying  to  take  a  second  wife  during  my  lifetime,  and  that 
wife  the  girl  whom  Gilbert  loves  ?  " 

Her  questions  cut  to  the  quick,  and  the  shallow  protes 
tations  he  would  have  set  up  were  stripped  off  in  a  mo 
ment,  leaving  bare  every  cowardly  shift  of  his  life.  Noth 
ing  was  left  but  the  amplest  confession. 

'•  You  won't  believe  me,  Mary,"  he  stammered,  feebly 
weeping  with  pity  of  his  own  miserable  plight,  "  and  I 
can't  ask  to  —  but  it 's  the  truth  !  Give  me  your  Bible  ! 
I  '11  kiss  the  place  you  kissed,  and  swear  before  God  that 
I  never  meant  to  marry  Martha  Deane  !  I  let  the  old 
man  think  so,  because  he  hinted  it  'd  make  a  difference  in 
his  will,  and  he  drove  me  —  he  and  Dr.  Deane  together 
—  to  speak  to  her.  I  was  a  coward  and  a  fool  that  I  let 
myself  be  driven  that  far,  but  I  could  n't  and  would  n't 
have  married  her  !  " 

"  The  whole  snarl  's  comin'  undone,"  interrupted  Miss 
Lavender.  "  I  see  the  end  on  't.  Do  you  mind  that  day, 
Alf.  Barton,  when  I  come  upon  you  suddent,  settin'  on  the 
log  and  savin'  "  I  can't  see  the  way.'  —  the  very  day,  I  '11 
be  snaked,  that  you  spoke  to  the  Doctor  about  Martha 
Deane  !  —  and  then  you  so  mortal  glad  that  she  would  n't 
have  you  !  You  have  acted  meaner  'n  dirt ;  I  don't  excuse 
him,  Mary  ;  but  never  mind,  justice  is  justice,  and  he  's  told 
the  truth  this  once't" 


376  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

"  Sit  down,  friends  !  "  said  Mr.  Stacy.  "  Before  the  will 
is  read,  I  want  Miss  Lavender  to  relate  how  it  was  that 
Abiah  Barton  and  myself  became  acquainted  with  the  fact 
of  the  marriage." 

O 

The  reading  of  the  will  had  been  almost  forgotten  in  the 
powerful  interest  excited  by  Mary  Barton's  narrative.  The 
curiosity  to  know  its  contents  instantly  revived,  but  was 
still  subordinate  to  that  which  the  lawyer's  statement  occa 
sioned.  The  whole  story  was  so  singular,  that  it  seemed 
as  yet  but  half  explained. 

"  Well,  to  begin  at  the  beginning"  said  Miss  Lavender, 
"  it  all  come  o'  my  wishin'  to  help  two  true-lovyers,  and 
maybe  you  '11  think  I  'm  as  foolish  as  I  'm  old,  but  never 
mind,  I  '11  allow  that ;  and  I  saw  that  nothin'  could  be 
done  till  Gilbert  got  his  lawful  name,  and  how  to  get  it 
was  the  trouble,  bein'  as  Mary  was  swore  to  keep  secret. 
The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  I  tried  to  worm  it  out  o' 
her,  but  no  use ;  she  set  her  teeth  as  tight  as  sin,  and  all 
I  did  learn  was,  that  when  she  was  in  Phildelphy  —  I 
knowed  Gilbert  was  born  there,  but  did  n't  let  on  —  she 
lived  at  Treadwell's,  in  Fourth  Street.  Then  turnin'  over 
everything  in  my  mind,  I  suspicioned  that  she  must  be 
waitin'  for  somebody  to  die,  and  that  's  what  held  her 
bound ;  it  seemed  to  me  I  must  guess  right  away,  but  I 
could  n't  and  could  n't,  and  so  goin'  up  the  hill,  nigh 
puzzled  to  death,  Gilbert  ploughin'  away  from  me,  bendin' 
his  head  for'ard  a  little  —  there !  turn  round,  Gilbert ! 
turn  round,  Alf.  Barton !  Look  at  them  two  sets  o' 
shoulders ! " 

Miss  Lavender's  words  were  scarcely  comprehensible, 
but  all  saw  the  resemblance  between  father  and  son,  in 
the  outline  of  the  shoulders,  and  managed  to  guess  her 
meaning. 

"  Well,"  she  continued,  "  it  struck  me  then  and  there, 
like  a  streak  o'  lightnin' ;  I  screeched  and  tumbled  like 
a  shot  hawk,  and  so  betwixt  the  saddle  and  the  ground, 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  377 

as  the  savin'  is,  it  come  to  me  —  not  mercy,  but  knowledge, 
all  the  same,  you  know  what  I  mean  ;  and  I  saw  them  was 
Alf.  Barton's  shoulders,  and  I  remembered  the  old  man 
was  struck  with  palsy  the  year  afore  Gilbert  was  born,  and 
I  dunno  how  many  other  things  come  to  me  all  of  a  heap  ; 
and  now  you  know,  Gilbert,  what  made  me  holler.  I 
borrowed  the  loan  o'  his  bay  horse  and  put  off  for  Phil- 
delphy  the  very  next  day,  and  a  mortal  job  it  was ;  what 
with  bar'ls  and  boxes  pitched  hither  and  yon,  and  people 
laughin'  at  y'r  odd  looks,  —  don't  talk  o'  Phildelphy  man 
ners  to  me,  for  I  've  had  enough  of  'em  !  — and  old  Tread- 
well  dead  when  I  did  find  him,  and  the  daughter  married 
to  Greenfield  in  the  brass  and  tin-ware  business,  it 's  a 
mercy  I  ever  found  out  anything." 

"  Come  to  the  point,  Betsy,"  said  Elisha,  impatiently. 

"The  point,  Betsy.  The  p'int  's  this  :  I  made  out  from 
the  Greenfield  woman  that  the  man  who  used  to  come  to 
see  Mary  Potter  was  the  perfect  pictur'  o'  young  Alf.  Bar 
ton  ;  then  to  where  she  went  next,  away  down  to  the 
t'other  end  o'  Third  Street,  boardin',  he  payin'  the  board 
till  just  afore  Gilbert  was  born  —  and  that  's  enough, 
thinks  I,  let  me  get  out  o'  this  rackety  place.  So  home 
I  posted,  but  not  all  the  way,  for  no  use  to  tell  Mary  Pot 
ter,  and  why  not  go  right  to  Old-man  Barton,  and  let  him 
know  who  his  daughter-in-law  and  son  is,  and  see  what  '11 
come  of  it  ?  Th'  old  man,  you  must  know,  always  could 
abide  me  better  'n  most  women,  and  I  was  n't  a  bit  afeard 
of  him,  not  lookin'  for  legacies,  and  would  n't  have  'em  at 
any  such  price  ;  but  never  mind.  I  hid  my  horse  in  the 
woods  and  sneaked  into  the  house  across  the  fields,  the 
back  way,  and  good  luck  that  nobody  was  at  home  but 
Ann,  here ;  and  so  I  up  and  told  the  old  man  the  whole 
story." 

"  The  devil !  "  Alfred  Barton  could  not  help  exclaiming, 
as  he  recalled  his  fathei  *s  singular  manner  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  in  question. 


378  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

"  Devil !  "  Miss  Lavender  repeated.  "  More  like  an 
angel  put  it  into  my  head.  But  I  see  Mr.  Elisha  's  fidgetty, 
so  I  '11  make  short  work  o'  the  rest.  He  curst  and  swore 
awful,  callin'  Mr.  Alfred  a  mean  pup,  and  I  dunno  what 
all,  but  he  had  n't  so  much  to  say  ag'in  Mary  Potter ;  he 
allowed  she  was  a  smart  lass,  and  he  'd  heerd  o'  Gilbert's 
doin's,  and  the  lad  had  grit  in  him.  i  Then,'  says  I,  '  here  's 
a  mighty  wrong  been  done,  and  it 's  for  you  to  set  it  right 
afore  you  die,  and  if  you  manage  as  I  tell  you,  you  can  be 
even  with  Mr.  Alfred ; '  and  he  perks  up  his  head  and 
asks  how,  and  says  I  '  This  way  '  —  but  what  I  said  '11  be 
made  manifest  by  Mr.  Stacy,  without  myjumpin'  ahead 
o'  the  proper  time.  The  end  of  it  was,  he  wound  up  by 
sayin',  — '  Gad,  if  Stacy  was  only  here  ! '  '  I  '11  bring 
him  ! '  says  I,  and  it  was  fixed  betwixt  and  between  us  two, 
Ann  knovvin'  nothin'  o'  the  matter ;  and  off  I  trapesed  back 
to  Chester,  and  brung  Mr.  Stacy,  and  if  that  good-for- 
nothin'  Jake  Fairthorn  had  n't  ha'  seen  me  "  — 

"  That  will  do,  Miss  Lavender,"  said  Mr.  Stacy,  inter 
rupting  her.  "  I  have  only  to  add  that  Abiah  Barton  was 
so  well  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  marriage,  that  his 
new  will  only  requires  the  proof  which  has  to-day  been 
furnished,  in  order  to  express  his  intentions  fully  and  com 
pletely.  It  was  his  wish  that  I  should  visit  Mary  Barton 
on  the  very  morning  afterwards ;  but  his  sudden  death 
prevented  it,  and  Miss  Lavender  ascertained,  the  same 
evening,  that  Mary,  in  view  of  the  neglect  and  disgrace 
which  she  had  suffered,  demanded  to  take  her  justification 
into  her  own  hands.  My  opinion  coincided  with  that  of 
Miss  Lavender,  that  she  alone  had  the  right  to  decide  in 
the  matter,  and  that  we  must  give  no  explanation  until 
she  had  asserted,  in  her  own  way,  her  release  from  a  most 
shameful  and  cruel  bond." 

It  was  a  proud  moment  of  Miss  Lavender's  life,  when, 
in  addition  to  her  services,  the  full  extent  of  which  would 
presently  be  known,  a  lawyer  of  Mr.  Stacy's  reputation  so 
respectfully  acknowledged' the  wisdom  of  her  judgment. 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXNETT.  379 

"If  further  information  upon  any  point  is  required.'' 
observed  the  lawyer,  "  it  may  be  asked  for  now ;  other 
wise,  I  will  proceed  to  the  reading  of  the  will." 

*•  Was  —  was  my  father  of  sound  mind,  —  that  is,  com 
petent  to  dispose  of  his  property  ?  "  asked  Elisha  Barton, 
with  a  little  hesitation. 

';  I  hope  the  question  will  not  be  raised,"  said  Mr.  Stacy, 
gravely ;  "  but  if  it  is  I  must  testify  that  he  was  in  as  full 
possession  of  his  faculties  as  at  any  time  since  his  first 
attack,  twenty-six  years  ago." 

He  then  read  the  will,  amid  the  breathless  silence  of 
the  company.  The  old  man  first  devised  to  his  elder  son; 
Elisha  Barton,  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  dollars,  invest 
ments  secured  by  mortgages  on  real  estate ;  an  equal 
amount  to  his  daughter-in-law,  Mary,  provided  she  was 
able  to  furnish  legal  proof  of  her  marriage  to  his  son, 
Alfred  Barton ;  five  thousand  dollars  each  to  his  four 
grand-children,  the  three  sons  of  Elisha.  and  Gilbert  Bar 
ton  ;  ten  thousand  dollars  to  his  daughter  Ann ;  and  to 
his  son  Alfred  the  occupancy  and  use  of  the  farm  during 
his  life,  the  property,  at  his  death,  to  pass  into  the  hands 
of  Gilbert  Barton.  There  was  also  a  small  bequest  to 
Giles,  and  the  reversions  of  the  estate  were  to  be  divided 
equally  among  all  the  heirs.  The  witnesses  to  the  will 
were  James  Stacy  and  Elizabeth  Lavender. 

Gilbert  and  his  mother  now  recognized,  for  the  first 
time,  what  they  owed  to  the  latter.  A  sense  of  propriety 
kept  them  silent;  the  fortune  which  had  thus  unexpect 
edly  fallen  into  their  hands  was  the  least  and  poorest  part 
of  their  justification.  Miss  Lavender,  also,  was  held  to 
silence,  but  it  went  hard  with  her.  The  reading  of  the 
will  gave  her  such  an  exquisite  sense  of  enjoyment  that 
she  felt  quite  choked  in  the  hush  which  followed  it 

"  As  the  marriage  is  now  proven,"  Mr.  Stacy  said,  fold 
ing  up  the  paper,  '•  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  the  will 
from  being  carried  into  effect." 


380  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Elisha ;  "  it  is  as  fair  as  could 
be  expected." 

"  Mother,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  suddenly. 

"Your  grandfather  wanted  to  do  me  justice,  my  boy," 
said  she.  "  Twenty  thousapd  dollars  will  not  pay  me  for 
twenty-five  years  of  shame ;  no  money  could ;  but  it  was 
the  only  payment  he  had  to  offer.  I  accept  this  as  I  ac 
cepted  my  trials.  The  Lord  sees  fit  to  make  my  worldly 
path  smooth  to  my  feet,  and  I  have  learned  neither  to 
reject  mercy  nor  wrath." 

She  was  not  elated  ;  she  would  not,  on  that  solemn  day, 
even  express  gratification  in  the  legacy,  for  her  son's  sake. 
Though  her  exalted  mood  was  but  dimly  understood  by  the 
others,  they  felt  its  influence.  If  any  thought  of  disputing 
the  will,  on  the  ground  of  his  father's  incompetency,  had 
ever  entered  Elisha  Barton's  mind,  he  did  not  dare,  then 
or  afterwards,  to  express  it. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Elisha  Barton,  with 
his  sons,  who  lived  in  the  adjoining  township  of  Penns- 
bury,  made  preparations  to  leave.  They  promised  soon  to 
visit  Gilbert  and  his  motKer.  Miss  Lavender,  taking  Gil 
bert  aside,  announced  that  she  was  going  to  return  to  Dr. 
Deane's. 

"  I  s'pose  I  may  tell  her,"  she  said,  trying  to  hide  her 
feelings  under  a  veil  of  clumsy  irony,  "  that  it 's  all  up  be 
twixt  and  between  you,  now  you  're  a  rich  man  ;  and  of 
course  as  she  would  n't  have  the  father,  she  can't  think  o' 
takin'  the  son." 

"  Betsy,"  he  whispered,  "  tell  her  that  I  never  yet  needed 
her  love  so  much  as  now,  and  that  I  shall  come  to  her  to 
morrow." 

"  Well,  you  know  the  door  stands  open,  even  accordin'  to 
the  Doctor's  words." 

As  Gilbert  went  forth  to  look  after  the  horses,  Alfred 
Barton  followed  him.  The  two  had  not  spoken  directly  to 
each  other  during  the  whole  day. 


THE  STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  381 

"  Gilbert,"  said  the  father,  putting  his  hand  on  the  son's 
shoulder,  "  you  know,  now,  why  it  always  cut  me,  to  have 
you  think  ill  of  me.  I  deserve  it,  for  I  've  been  no  father 
to  you ;  and  after  what  you  've  heard  to-day,  I  may  never 
have  a  chance  to  be  one.  But  if  you  could  give  me  a 
chance  —  if  you  could  "  — 

Here  his  voice  seemed  to  fail.  Gilbert  quietly  withdrew 
his  shoulder  from  the  hand,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  —  "  Don't  ask  me  anything  now,  if  you  please.  I  can 
only  think  of  my  mother  to-day." 

Alfred  Barton  walked  to  the  garden-fence,  leaned  his 
arms  upon  it,  and  his  head  upon  them.  He  was  still  lean 
ing  there,  when  mother  and  son  rode  by  in  the  twilight,  on 
their  way  home. 


332  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE   LOVERS. 

BOTH  mother  and  son  made  the  homeward  ride  in  si 
lence.  A  wide  space,  a  deep  gulf  of  time,  separated  them 
from  the  morning.  The  events  of  the  day  had  been  so 
startling,  so  pregnant  with  compressed  fate,  the  emotions 
they  had  undergone  had  been  so  profound,  so  mixed  of  the 
keenest  elements  of  wonder,  pain,  and  pride,  that  a  feeling 
of  exhaustion  succeeded.  The  old  basis  of  their  lives 
seemed  to  have  shifted,  and  the  new  foundations  were  not 
yet  firm  under  their  feet. 

Yet,  as  they  sat  together  before  the  hearth-fire  that  even 
ing,  and  the  stern,  proud  calm  of  Gilbert's  face  slowly 
melted  into  a  gentler  and  tenderer  expression,  his  mother 
was  moved  to  speak. 

"  This  has  been  my  day,"  she  said ;  "  it  was  appointed 
and  set  apart  for  me  from  the  first ;  it  belonged  to  me,  and 
I  have  used  it,  in  my  right,  from'  sun  to  sun.  But  I  feel 
now,  that  it  was  not  my  own  strength  alone  that  held  me 
up.  I  am  weak  and  weary,  and  it  almost  seems  that  I  fail 
in  thanksgiving.  Is  it,  Gilbert,  because  you  do  not  rejoice 
as  I  had  hoped  you  would  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  he  answered,  "  whatever  may  happen  in  my 
life,  I  can  never  feel  so  proud  of  myself,  as  I  felt  to-day,  to 
be  your  son.  I  do  rejoice  for  your  sake,  as  I  shall  for  my 
own,  no  doubt,  when  I  get  better  used  to  the  truth.  You 
could  not  expect  me,  at  once,  to  be  satisfied  with  a  father 
who  has  not  only  acted  so  cruelly  towards  you,  but  whom  I 
have  suspected  of  being  my  own  rival  and  enemy.  I  don't 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  383 

think  I  shall  ever  like  the  new  name  as  well  as  the  old,  but 
it  is  enough  for  me  that  the  name  brings  honor  and  inde 
pendence  to  you ! " 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  ha'  told  you  this  morning,  Gilbert. 
I  thought  only  of  the  justification,  not  of  the  trial ;  and  it 
seemed  easier  to  speak  in  actions,  to  you  and  to  all  men  at 
once,  as  I  did,  than  to  tell  the  story  quietly  to  you  alone. 
I  feared  it  might  take  away  my  strength,  if  I  did  n't  follow, 
step  by  step,  the  course  marked  out  for  me." 

"  You  were  right,  mother !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What  trial 
had  I,  compared  with  yours  ?  What  tale  had  I  to  tell  — 
what  pain  to  feel,  except  that  if  I  had  not  been  born,  you 
would  have  been  saved  twenty-five  years  of  suffering  !  " 

"  No,  Gilbert !  —  never  say,  never  think  that !  I  see 
already  the  suffering  and  the  sorrow  dying  away  as  if 
they  'd  never  been,  and  you  left  to  me  for  the  rest  of  life 
the  Lord  grants ;  to  me  a  son  has  been  more  than  a  hus 
band  ! " 

"  Then,"  he  asked  in  an  anxious,  hesitating  tone,  "  would 
you  consider  that  I  was  not  quite  so  much  a  son  —  that 
any  part  of  my  duty  to  you  was  lost  —  if  I  wished  to  bring 
you  a  daughter,  also  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Gilbert.  Betsy  Lavender  has 
told  me  all.  I  am  glad  you  spoke  of  it,  this  day ;  it  will 
put  the  right  feeling  of  thanksgiving  into  my  heart  and 
yours.  Martha  Deane  never  stood  between  us,  my  boy  ;  it 
was  I  that  stood  between  you  and  her !  " 

"  Mother  ! "  he  cried,  a  joyous  light  shining  from  his  face, 
"  you  love  her  ?  You  are  willing  that  she  should  be  my 
wife?" 

"  Ay,  Gilbert ;  willing,  and  thankful,  and  proud." 

"  But  the  very  name  of  her  struck  you  down  !  You  fell 
into  a  deadly  faint  when  I  told  you  I  had  spoken  my  mind 
to  her!" 

"  I  see,  my  boy,"  she  said ;  "  I  see  now  why  you  never 
mentioned  her  name,  from  that  time.  It  was  not  Martha 


384  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

Deane,  but  the  name  of  the  one  you  thought  wanted  to  win 
her  away  from  you,  —  your  father's  name,  Gilbert,  —  that 
seemed  to  put  a  stop  to  my  life.  The  last  trial  was  the 
hardest  of  all,  but  don't  you  see  it  was  only  the  bit  of  dark 
ness  that  comes  before  the  daylight  ?  " 

While  this  new  happiness  brought  the  coveted  sense  of 
thanksgiving  to  mother  and  son,  and  spread  an  unexpected 
warmth  and  peace  over  the  close  of  the  fateful  day,  there 
was  the  liveliest  excitement  in  Kennett  Square,  over  Miss 
Lavender's  intelligence.  That  lady  had  been  waylaid  by  a 
dozen  impatient  questioners  before  she  could  reach  the 
shelter  of  Dr.  Deane's  roof;  and  could  only  purchase 
release  by  a  hurried  statement  of  the  main  facts,  in  which 
Alfred  Barton's  cruelty,  and  his  wife's  wonderful  fidelity  to 
her  oath,  and  the  justice  done  to  her  and  Gilbert  by  the 
old  man's  will,  were  set  forth  with  an  energy  that  multiplied 
itself  as  the  gossip  spread. 

In  the  adjoining  townships,  it  was  reported  and  believed, 
the  very  next  day,  that  Alfred  Barton  had  tried  to  murder 
his  wife  and  poison  his  father  —  that  Mary  had  saved  the 
latter,  and  inherited,  as  her  reward,  the  entire  property. 

Once  safely  housed,  Miss  Lavender  enjoyed  another  tri 
umph.  She  related  the  whole  story,  in  every  particular,  to 
Martha  Deane,  in  the  Doctor's  presence,  taking  especial 
care  not  to  omit  Alfred's  words  in  relation  to  his  enforced 
wooing. 

"  And  there  's  one  thing  I  must  n't  forgit,  Martha,"  she 
declared,  at  the  close  of  her  narrative.  "  Gilbert  sends 
word  to  you  that  he  needs  your  true-love  more  'n  ever,  and 
he  's  comin'  up  to  see  you  to-morrow ;  and  says  I  to  him, 
The  door 's  open,  even  accordin'  to  the  Doctor's  words  ;  and 
so  it  is,  for  he  's  got  his  true  name,  and  free  to  come. 
You  're  a  man  o'  your  word,  Doctor,  and  nothin'  's  been  said 
or  done,  thank  Goodness,  that  can't  be  easy  mended  !  " 

What  impression  this  announcement  made  upon  Dr. 
Deane  could  not  be  guessed  by  either  of  the  women.  He 


THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT.  385 

rose,  went  to  the  window,  looked  into  the  night  for  a  long 
time  without  saying  a  word,  and  finally  betook  himself  to 
his  bed. 

The  next  morning,  although  there  were  no  dangerous 
cases  on  his  hands,  he  rode  away,  remarking  that  he  should 
not  be  home  again  until  the  evening.  Martha  knew  what 
this  meant,  and  also  what  Miss  Lavender  meant  in  hurry 
ing  down  to  Fairthorn's,  soon  after  the  Doctor's  departure. 
She  became  restless  with  tender  expectation ;  her  cheeks 
burned,  and  her  fingers  trembled  so  that  she  was  forced  to 
lay  aside  her  needle-work.  It  seemed  very  long  since  she 
had  even  seen  Gilbert ;  it  was  a  long  time  (in  the  calendar 
of  lovers)  since  the  two  had  spoken  to  each  other.  She 
tried  to  compare  the  man  he  had  been  with  the  man  he 
now  was, —  Gilbert  poor,  disgraced  and.  in  trouble,  with 
Gilbert  rich  and  honorably  born  ;  and  it  almost  seemed  as 
if  the  latter  had  impoverished  her  heart  by  taking  from  it 
the  need  of  that  faithful,  passionate  sympathy  which  she 
had  bestowed  upon  the  former. 

The  long  hour  of  waiting  came  to  an  end.  Roger  was 
once  more  tethered  at  the  gate,  and  Gilbert  was  in  the 
room.  It  was  not  danger,  this  time,  beyond  the  brink  of 
which  they  met,  but  rather  a  sudden  visitation  of  security ; 
yet  both  were  deeply  and  powerfully  agitated.  Martha  was 
the  first  to  recover  her  composure.  Withdrawing  herself 
from  Gilbert's  arms,  she  said,  — 

"  It  was  not  right  that  the  tests  should  be  all  on  my  side. 
Now  it  is  my  turn  to  try  you,  Gilbert !  " 

Even  her  arch,  happy  smile  did  not  enlighten  him. 
«  How,  Martha  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Since  you  don't  know,  you  are  already  tested.  But 
how  grave  you  look !  Have  I  not  yet  learned  all  of  this 
wonderful,  wonderful  history  ?  Did  Betsy  Lavender  keep 
something  back  ?  " 

"  Martha  ! "  he  cried,  "  you  shame  me  out  of  the  words  I 
had  meant  to  say.  But  they  were  doubts  of  my  own  posi- 
25 


386  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

tion.  not  of  you.  Is  my  new  name  better  or  worse  in  your 
ears,  than  my  old  one  ?  " 

"  To  me  you  are  only  Gilbert,"  she  answered,  "  as  I  am 
Martha  to  you.  What  does  it  matter  whether  we  write 
Potter  or  Barton  ?  Either  is  good  in  itself,  and  so  would 
any  other  name  be  ;  but  Barton  means  something,  as  the 
world  goes,  and  therefore  we  will  take  it.  Gilbert,  I  have 
put  myself  in  your  place,  since  I  learned  the  whole  truth. 
I  guessed  you  would  come  to  me  with  a  strange,  uncertain 
feeling,  —  not  a  doubt,  but  rather  a  wonder ;  and  I  endeav 
ored  to  make  your  new  circumstances  clear  to  my  mind. 
Our  duty  to  your  mother  is  plain ;  she  is  a  woman  beside 
whom  all  other  women  we  know  seem  weak  and  insignifi 
cant.  It  is  not  that  which  troubled  you,  I  am  sure,  when 
you  thought  of  me.  Let  me  say,  then,  that  so  far  as  our 
relation  to  your  father  is  concerned,  I  will  be  guided  en 
tirely  by  your  wishes." 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  "  that  is  my  trouble,  —  or,  rather,  my 
disappointment,  —  that  with  my  true  name  I  must  bring 
to  you  and  fasten  upon  you  the  whole  mean  and  shameful 
story  !  One  parent  must  always  be  honored  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  other,  and  my  name  still  belongs  to  the  one 
that  is  disgraced." 

"I  foresaw  your  feeling,  Gilbert.  You  were  on  the 
point  of  making  another  test  for  me  ;  that  is  not  fair. 
The  truth  has  come  too  suddenly,  —  the  waters  of  your 
life  have  been  stirred  too  deeply  ;  you  must  wait  until 
they  clear.  Leave  that  to  Alfred  Barton  and  your  mother. 
To  me,  I  confess,  he  seems  very  weak  rather  than  very 
bad.  I  can  now  understand  the  pains  which  his  addresses 
to  me  must  have  cost  him.  If  I  ever  saw  fear  on  a  man's 
face,  it  was  on  his  when  he  thought  I  might  take  him  at  his 
word.  But,  to  a  man  like  you,  a  mean  nature  is  no  better 
than  a  bad  one.  Perhaps  I  feel  your  disappointment  as 
deeply  as  you  can  ;  yet  it  is  our  duty  to  keep  this  feeling 
to  ourselves.  For  your  mother's  sake,  Gilbert ;  you  must 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  387 

not  let  the  value  of  her  justification  be  lessened  in  her 
eyes.  She  deserves  all  the  happiness  you  and  I  can  give 
her,  and  if  she  is  willing  to  receive  me,  some  day,  as  a 
daughter  "  — 

Gilbert  interrupted  her  words  by  clasping  her  in  his 
arms.  "Martha!"  he  exclaimed,  "your  heart  points  out 
the  true  way  because  it  is  true  to  the  core !  In  these 
things  a  woman  sees  clearer  than  a  man  ;  when  I  am  with 
you  only,  I  seem  to  have  proper  courage  and  independence 

—  I  am  twice  myself !    Won't  you  let  me  claim  you  —  take 
you  —  soon  ?    My  mother  loves  you  ;  she  will  welcome  you 
as  my  wife,  and  will  your  father  still  stand  between  us  ?  " 

Martha  smiled.  "  My  father  is  a  man  of  strong  will," 
she  said,  "  and  it  is  hard  for  him  to  admit  that  his  judg 
ment  was  wrong.  TVe  must  give  him  a  little  time,  —  not 
urge,  not  seem  to  triumph,  spare  his  pride,  and  trnst  to 
his  returning  sense  of  what  is  right  You  might  claim 
reparation.  Gilbert,  for  his  cruel  words;  I  could  not  for 
bid  you ;  but  after  so  much  strife  let  there  be  peace,  if 
possible." 

"  It  is  at  least  beyond  his  power,"  Gilbert  replied,  "  to 
accuse  me  of  sordid  motives.  As  I  said  before,  Martha, 
give  up  your  legacy,  if  need  be.  but  come  to  me  !  " 

"  As  /  said  before,  Gilbert,  the  legacy  is  honestly  mine, 
and  I  will  come  to  you  with  it  in  my  hands." 

Then  they  both  began  to  smile,  but  it  was  a  conflict  of 
purpose  which  drew  them  nearer  together,  in  both  senses, 

—  an  emulation  of  unselfish  love,  which  was  compromised 
by  clasping  arms  and  silent  lips. 

There  was  a  sudden  noise  in  the  back  part  of  the  house. 
A  shrill  voice  was  heard,  exclaiming,  —  "I  will  —  I  will ! 
don't  hold  me ! "  —  the  door  burst  open,  and  Sally  Fair- 
thorn  whirled  into  the  room,  with  the  skirt  of  her  gown 
torn  loose,  on  one  side,  from  the  body.  Behind  her  fol 
lowed  Miss  Lavender,  in  a  state  of  mingled  amusement 
and  anger. 


388  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

Sally  kissed  Martha,  then  Gilbert,  then  threw  an  arm 
around  the  neck  of  each,  crying  and  laughing  hysterically  : 
«  O  Martha  !  O  Gilbert !  you  '11  be  married  first,  —  I  said 
it,  —  but  Mark  and  I  must  be  your  bridesmaids ;  don't 
laugh,  you  know  what  I  mean  ;  and  Betsy  would  n't  have 
me  break  in  upon  you ;  but  I  waited  half  an  hour,  and 
then  off,  up  here,  she  after  me,  and  we  're  both  out  o' 
breath  !  Did  ever,  ever  such  a  thing  happen  !  " 

"  You  crazy  thing  !  "  cried  Miss  Lavender.  "  No,  such 
a  thing  never  happened,  and  would  n't  ha'  happened  this 
time,  if  I  'd  ha'  been  a  little  quicker  on  my  legs ;  but  never 
mind,  it  serves  me  right ;  you  two  are  to  blame,  for  why 
need  I  trouble  my  head  furder  about  ye  ?  There  's  cases, 
they  say,  where  two  's  company,  and  three  's  overmuch ; 
but  you  may  fix  it  for  yourselves  next  time,  and  welcome  ; 
and  there  's  one  bit  o'  wisdom  I  've  got  by  it,  —  foller 
true-lovyers,  and  they  '11  wear  your  feet  off,  and  then  want 
you  to  go  on  the  stumps  !  " 

"  We  won't  relieve  you  yet,  Betsy,"  said  Gilbert ;  "  will 
we,  Martha  ?  The  good  work  you  've  done  for  us  is  n't 
finished." 

"  Is  n't  finished.  Well,  you  '11  gi'  me  time  to  make  my 
will,  first.  How  long  d'  ye  expect  me  to  last,  at  this  rate  ? 
Is  my  bones  brass  and  my  flesh  locus'-wood  ?  Am  I  like 
a  tortle,  that  goes  around  the  fields  a  hundred  years  ?  " 

"  No,"  Gilbert  answered.  "  but  you  shall  be  like  an  angel, 
dressed  all  in  white,  with  roses  in  your  hair.  Sally  and 
Mark,  you  know,  want  to  be  the  first  bridesmaids  "  — 

Sally  interrupted  him  with  a  slap,  but  it  was  not  very 
violent,  and  he  did  not  even  attempt  to  dodge  it. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Betsy  ?  "  said  Martha.  "  It  must  be  as 
Gilbert  says." 

"  A  pretty  fool  you  'd  make  o'  me,"  Miss  Lavender  re 
marked,  screwing  up  her  face  to  conceal  her  happy  emo 
tion. 

Gilbert  soon  afterwards  left  for  home,  but  returned  to- 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  389 

wards  evening,  determined,  before  all  things,  to  ascertain 
his  present  standing  with  Dr.  Deane.  He  did  not  antici 
pate  that  the  task  had  been  made  easy  for  him  ;  but  this 
was  really  the  case.  Wherever  Dr.  Deane  had  been  that 
day,  whoever  he  had  seen,  the  current  of  talk  all  ran  one 
way.  When  the  first  surprise  of  the  news  had  been  ex 
hausted,  and  the  Doctor  had  corrected  various  monstrous 
rumors  from  his  own  sources  of  positive  knowledge,  one 
inference  was  sure  to  follow,  —  that  now  there  could  be  no 
objection  to  his  daughter  becoming  Gilbert  Barton's  wife. 
He  was  sounded,  urged,  almost  threatened,  and  finally 
returned  home  with  the  conviction  that  any  further  oppo 
sition  must  result  in  an  immense  sacrifice  of  popularity. 

Still,  he  was  not  ready  to  act  upon  that  conviction,  at 
once.  He  met  Gilbert  with  a  bland  condescension,  and 
when  the  latter,  after  the  first  greeting,  asked,  — 

"  Have  I  now  the  right  to  enter  your  house  ?  " 

The  Doctor  answered,  — 

"  Certainly.  Thee  has  kept  thy  word,  and  I  will  will 
ingly  admit  that  I  did  thee  wrong  in  suspecting  thee  of 
unworthy  devices.  I  may  say,  also,  that  so  far  as  I  was 
able  to  judge,  I  approved  of  thy  behavior  on  the  day  of 
thy  grandfather's  funeral.  In  all  that  has  happened  here 
tofore,  I  have  endeavored  to  act  cautiously  and  prudently ; 
and  thee  will  grant,  I  doubt  not,  that  thy  family  history  is 
so  very  far  out  of  the  common  way,  as  that  no  man  could 
be  called  upon  to  believe  it  without  the  strongest  evidence. 
Of  course,  all  that  I  brought  forward  against  thee  now  falls 
to  the  ground." 

"  I  trust,  then,"  Gilbert  said,  "  that  you  have  no  further 
cause  to  forbid  my  engagement  with  Martha.  My  mother 
has  given  her  consent,  and  we  both  hope  for  yours." 

Dr.  Deane  appeared  to  reflect,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
with  his  cane  across  his  knees.  "  It  is  a  very  serious 
thing,"  he  said,  at  last,  —  "  very  serious,  indeed.  Xot  a 
subject  for  hasty  decision.  Thee  offered,  if  I  remember 


390  .      THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

rightly,  to  give  me  time  to  know  thee  better ;  therefore 
thee  cannot  complain  if  I  were  now  disposed  to  accept  thy 
offer." 

Gilbert  fortunately  remembered  Martha's  words,  and 
restrained  his  impatience. 

"  I  will  readily  give  you  time,  Dr.  Deane,"  he  replied, 
"  provided  you  will  give  me  opportunities.  You  are  free  to 
question  all  who  know  me,  of  course,  and  I  suppose  you 
have  done  so.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  take  the  trouble  to 
come  to  me,  in  order  that  we  may  become  better  acquainted, 
but  only  that  you  will  allow  me  to  come  to  you." 

"  It  would  hardly  be  fair  to  deny  thee  that  much,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

"  I  will  ask  no  more  now.  I  never  meant,  from  the  first, 
to  question  your  interest  in  Martha's  happiness,  or  your 
right  to  advise  her.  It  may  be  too  soon  to  expect  your 
consent,  but  at  least  you  '11  hold  back  your  refusal  ?  " 

"  Thee  's  a  reasonable  young  man,  Gilbert,"  the  Doctor 
remarked,  after  a  pause  which  was  quite  unnecessary.  "  I 
like  that  in  thee.  We  are  both  agreed,  then,  that  while 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  thee  in  my  house,  and  am  willing 
to  allow  to  Martha  and  thee  the  intercourse  proper  to  a 
young  man  and  woman,  it  is  not  yet  to  be  taken  for  granted 
that  I  sanction  your  desired  marriage.  Remember  me 
kindly  to  thy  mother,  and  say,  if  thee  pleases,  that  I  shall 
soon  call  to  see  her." 

Gilbert  had  scarcely  reached  home  that  evening,  before 
Deb.  Smith,  who  had  left  the  farm-house  on  the  day  fol 
lowing  the  recovery  of  the  money,  suddenly  made  her 
appearance.  She  slipped  into  the  kitchen  without  knock 
ing,  and  crouched  down  in  a  corner  of  the  wide  chimney- 
place,  before  she  spoke.  Both  mother  and  son  were 
struck  by  the  singular  mixture  of  shyness  and  fear  in 
her  manner. 

"  I  heerd  all  about  it,  to-day,"  she  presently  said,  "  and 
I  would  n't  ha'  come  here,  if  I  'd  ha'  knowed  where  else 


THE  STORY   OF  KENXETT.  391 

to  go  to.  They  're  after  me,  this  time,  Sandy's  friends, 
in  dead  earnest ;  they  '11  have  my  blood,  if  they  can  git  it ; 
but  you  said  once't  you  'd  shelter  me,  Mr.  Gilbert !  " 

"  So  I  will,  Deborah ! "  he  exclaimed ;  '•  do  you  doubt  my 
word  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't ;  but  I  dunno  how  't  is  —  you  're  rich  now, 
and  as  well-born  as  the  best  of  'em,  and  Mary  's  lawful- 
married  and  got  her  lawful  name  ;  and  you  both  seem  to 
be  set  among  the  folks  that  can't  feel  for  a  body  like  me ; 
not  that  your  hearts  is  changed,  only  it  comes  different  to 
me,  somehow." 

"  Stay  here,  Deborah,  until  you  feel  sure  you  're  safe," 
said  Mary.  "  If  Gilbert  or  I  should  refuse  to  protect  you, 
your  blood  would  be  upon  our  heads.  I  won't  blame  you 
for  doubting  us ;  I  know  how  easy  it  is  to  lose  faith  in 
others ;  but  if  you  think  I  was  a  friend  to  you  while  my 
name  was  disgraced,  you  must  also  remember  that  I  knew 
the  truth  then  as  well  as  the  world  knows  it  now." 

"  Bless  you  for  savin'  that,  Mary  !  There  was  n't  much 
o'  my  name  at  any  time ;  but  what  little  I  might  ha'  had  is 
clean  gone  —  nothin'  o'  me  left  but  the  strong  arm  !  I  'm 
not  a  coward,  as  you  know,  Mr.  Gilbert ;  I  '11  meet  any 
man,  face  to  face,  in  a  fair  and  open  fight.  Let  'em  come 
in  broad  day,  and  on  the  high  road  !  —  not  lay  in  wait  in 
bushes  and  behind  fences,  to  shoot  me  downi  unawares." 

They  strove  to  quiet  her  tears,  and  little  by  little  she 
grew  composed.  The  desperate  recklessness  of  her  mood 
contrasted  strangely  with  her  morbid  fear  of  an  ambushed 
enemy.  Gilbert  suspected  that  it  might  be  a  temporary 
insanity,  growing  out  of  her  remorse  for  having  betrayed 
Sandy  Flash.  When  she  had  been  fed,  and  had  smoked 
a  pipe  or  two,  she  seemed  quite  to  forget  it,  and  was  almost 
her  own  self  when  she  went  up  to  her  bed  in  the  western 
room. 

The  moon,  three  quarters  full,  was  hanging  over  the 
barn,  and  made  a  peaceful,  snowy  light  about  the  house. 


392  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

She  went  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and  breathed  the  cool 
air  of  the  April  night.  The  "  herring-frogs  "  were  keep 
ing  up  an  incessant,  birdlike  chirp  down  the  glen,  and 
nearer  at  hand  the  plunging  water  of  the  mill-race  made 
a  soothing  noise.  It  really  seemed  that  the  poor  creature 
had  found  a  quiet  refuge  at  last. 

Suddenly,  something  rustled  and  moved  behind  the 
mass  of  budding  lilacs,  at  the  farther  corner  of  the  garden- 
paling.  She  leaned  forward ;  the  next  moment  there  was 
a  flash,  the  crack  of  a  musket  rang  sharp  and  loud  through 
the  dell,  followed  by  a  whiz  and  thud  at  her  very  ear.  A 
thin  drift  of  smoke  rose  above  the  bushes,  and  she  saw  a 
man's  figure  springing  to  the  cover  of  the  nearest  apple- 
tree.  In  another  minute,  Gilbert  made  his  appearance, 
gun  in  hand. 

"  Shoot  him,  Gilbert !  "  cried  Deb.  Smith  ;  "it 's  Dough 
erty  ! " 

Whoever  it  was,  the  man  escaped;  but  by  a  singular 
coincidence,  the  Irish  ostler  disappeared  that  night  from 
the  Unicorn  tavern,  and  was  never  again  seen  in  the  neigh 
borhood. 

The  bullet  had  buried  itself  in  the  window-frame,  after 
having  passed  within  an  inch  or  two  of  Deb.  Smith's  head.1 
To  Gilbert's  surprise,  all  her  fear  was  gone  ;  she  was  again 
fierce  and  defiant,  and  boldly  came  and  went,  from  that 
night  forth,  saying  that  no  bullet  was  or  would  be  cast,  to 
take  her  life. 

Therein  she  was  right ;  but  it  was  a  dreary  life  and  a 
miserable  death  which  awaited  her.  For  twenty-five  years 
she  wandered  about  the  neighborhood,  achieving  wonders 
in  spinning,  reaping  and  threshing,  by  the  undiminished 
force  of  her  arm,  though  her  face  grew  haggard  and  her 
hair  gray ;  sometimes  plunging  into  wild  drinking-bouts 
with  the  rough  male  companions  of  her  younger  days ; 

1  The  hole  made  by  the  bullet  still  remains  in  the  window-frame  of  the 
old  farm-house. 


THE  STORY   OF   KENXETT.  393 

sometimes  telling  a  new  generation,  with  weeping  and  vio 
lent  self-accusation,  the  story  of  her  treachery  ;  but  always 
with  the  fearful  conviction  of  a  yet  unfulfilled  curse  hang 
ing  over  her  life.  Whether  it  was  ever  made  manifest, 
no  man  could  tell ;  but  when  she  was  found  lying  dead 
on  the  floor  of  her  lonely  cabin  on  the  Woodrow  farm, 
with  staring,  stony  eyes,  and  the  lines  of  unspeakable 
horror  on  her  white  face,  there  were  those  who  recalled 
her  own  superstitious  forebodings,  and  believed  them. 


394  THE   STORY    OF   KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 

IT  may  readily  be  guessed  that  such  extraordinary  de 
velopments  as  those  revealed  in  the  preceding  chapters 
produced  more  than  a  superficial  impression  upon  a  quiet 
community  like  that  of  Kennett  and  the  adjoining  town 
ships.  People  secluded  from  the  active  movements  of  the 
world  are  drawn  to  take  the  greater  interest  in  their  own 
little  family  histories,  —  a  feeling  which  by-and-by  amounts 
to  a  partial  sense  of  ownership,  justifying  not  only  any 
degree  of  advice  or  comment,  but  sometimes  even  actual 
interference. 

The  Quakers,  who  formed  a  majority  of  the  population, 
and  generally  controlled  public  sentiment  in  domestic  mat 
ters,  through  the  purity  of  their  own  domestic  life,  at  once 
pronounced  in  favor  of  Mary  Barton.  The  fact  of  her 
having  taken  an  oath  was  a  slight  stumbling-block  to  some  ; 
but  her  patience,  her  fortitude,  her  submission  to  what  she 
felt  to  be  the  Divine  Will,  and  the  solemn  strength  which 
had  upborne  her  on  the  last  trying  day,  were  qualities  which 
none  could  better  appreciate.  The  fresh,  warm  sympathies 
of  the  younger  people,  already  given  to  Gilbert  and  Martha, 
now  also  embraced  her  ;  far  and  wide  went  the  wonderful 
story,  carrying  with  it  a  wave  of  pity  and  respect  for  her, 
of  contempt  and  denunciation  for  her  husband. 

The  old  Friends  and  their  wives  came  to  visit  her,  in 
their  stately  chairs ;  almost  daily,  for  a  week  or  two,  the 
quiet  of  the  farm  was  invaded,  either  by  them,  or  by  the 


THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT.  395 

few  friends  who  had  not  forsaken  her  in  her  long  disgrace, 
and  were  doubly  welcome  now.  She  received  them  all 
with  the  same  grave,  simple  dignity  of  manner,  gratefully 
accepting  their  expressions  of  sympathy,  and  quietly  turn 
ing  aside  the  inconsiderate  questions  that  would  have 
probed  too  deeply  and  painfully. 

To  an  aged  Friend,  —  a  preacher  of  the  sect,  • —  who 
plumply  asked  her  what  course  she  intended  to  pursue 
towards  her  husband,  she  replied,  — 

"  I  will  not  trouble  my  season  of  thanksgiving.  What 
is  right  for  me  to  do  will  be  made  manifest  when  the  occa 
sion  comes." 

This  reply  was  so  entirely  in  the  Quaker  spirit  that  the 
old  man  was  silenced.  Dr.  Deane,  who  was  present,  looked 
upon  her  with  admiration. 

Whatever  conjectures  Alfred  Barton  might  have  made 
in  advance,  of  the  consequences  which  would  follow  the 
disclosure  of  his  secret  marriage,  they  could  have  borne  no 
resemblance  to  the  reality.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to 
imagine  the  changes  which  the  years  had  produced  in  his 
wife.  He  looked  forward  to  wealth,  to  importance  in  the 
community,  and  probably  supposed  that  she  would  only  be 
too  glad  to  share  the  proud  position  with  him.  There 
would  be  a  little  embarrassment  at  first,  of  course  ;  but  his 
money  would  soon  make  everything  smooth. 

Now,  he  was  utterly  defeated,  crushed,  overwhelmed. 
The  public  judgment,  so  much  the  more  terrible  where 
there  is  no  escape  from  it  rolled  down  upon  him.  Avoided 
or  coldly  ignored  by  the  staid,  respectable  farmers,  openly 
insulted  bv  his  swao^erino-  comrades  of  the  fox-hunt  and 

*•  &C5  O 

the  bar-room,  jeered  at  and  tortured  by  the  poor  and  idle 
hangers-on  of  the  community,  who  took  a  malicious  pleasure 
in  thus  repaying  him  for  his  former  haughtiness  and  their 
own  humility,  he  found  himself  a  moral  outcast.  His 
situation  became  intolerable.  He  no  lono-er  dared  to  show 

O 

himself  in  the  village,  or  upon  the  highways,  but  slunk 


396  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

about  the  house  and  farm,  cursing  himself,  his  father  and 
the  miserable  luck  of  his  life. 

When,  finally,  Giles  begged  to  know  how  soon  his  legacy 
would  be  paid,  and  hinted  that  he  could  n't  stay  any  longer 
than  to  get  possession  of  the  money,  for,  hard  as  it  might 
be  to  leave  an  old  home,  he  must  stop  going  to  the  mill,  or 
getting  the  horses  shod,  or  sitting  in  the  Unicorn  bar-room 
of  a  Saturday  night,  and  a  man  might  as  well  be  in  jail  at 
once,  and  be  done  with  it  —  when  Alfred  Barton  heard  all 
this,  he  deliberated,  for  a  few  minutes,  whether  it  would 
not  be  a  good  thing  to  cut  his  own  throat. 

Either  that,  or  beg  for  mercy  ;  no  other  course  was  left. 

That  evening  he  stole  up  to  the  village,  fearful,  at  every 
step,  of  being  seen  and  recognized,  and  knocked  timidly  at 
Dr.  Deane's  door.  Martha  and  her  father  were  sitting 
together,  when  he  came  into  the  room,  and  they  were 
equally  startled  at  his  appearance.  His  large  frame  seemed 
to  have  fallen  in,  his  head  was  bent,  and  his  bushy  whiskers 
had  become  quite  gray  ;  deep  wrinkles  seamed  his  face ;  his 
eyes  were  hollow,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drooped 
with  an  expression  of  intolerable  misery. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  Miss  Martha,  if  she  '11  let 
me,"  he  said,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I  allowed  thee  to  speak  to  my  daughter  once  too  often," 
Dr.  Deane  sternly  replied.  "  What  thee  has  to  say  now, 
must  be  said  in  my  presence." 

He -hesitated  a  moment,  then  took  a  chair  and  sat  down, 
turning  towards  Martha.  "  It 's  come  to  this,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  must  have  a  little  mercy,  or  lay  hands  on  my  own 
life.  I  have  n't  a  word  to  say  for  myself;  I  deserve  it  all. 
I  '11  do  anything  that  's  wanted  of  me  —  whatever  Mary 
says,  or  people  think  is  her  right  that  she  has  n't  yet  got, 
if  it 's  mine  to  give.  You  said  you  wished  me  well,  Miss 
Martha,  even  at  the  time  I  acted  so  shamefully  ;  I  remem 
ber  that,  and  so  I  ask  you  to  help  me." 

She  saw  that  he  spoke  truth,  at  last,  and  all  her  con- 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  397 

tempt  and  disgust  could  not  keep  down  the  quick  sensation 
of  pity  which  his  wretchedness  inspired.  But  she  was  un 
prepared  for  his  appeal,  and  uncertain  how  to  answer  it. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Go  to  Mary  on  my  behalf!  Ask  her  to  pardon  me,  if 
she  can,  or  say  what  I  can  do  to  earn  her  pardon  —  that 
the  people  may  know  it.  They  won't  be  so  hard  en  me,  if 
they  know  she  's  done  that.  Everything  depends  on  her, 
and  if  it 's  true,  as  they  say,  that  she  's  going  to  sue  for 
a  divorce  and  take  back  her  own  name  for  herself  and 
Gilbert,  and  cut  loose  from  me  forever,  why,  it  '11  just  "  — 

He  paused,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  I  have  not  heard  of  that,"  said  Martha. 

"  Have  n't  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  But  it 's  too  likely  to  be 
true." 

"  Why  not  go  directly  to  Mary,  yourself?" 

"  I  will,  Miss  Martha,  if  you  '11  go  with  me,  and  maybe 
say  a  kind  word  now  and  then,  —  that  is,  if  you  think  it 
is  n't  too  soon  for  mercy  !  " 

u  It  is  never  too  soon  to  ask  for  mercy,"  she  said,  coming 
to  a  sudden  decision.  "  I  will  go  with  you  ;  let  it  be  to 
morrow." 

"  Martha,"  warned  Dr.  Deane,  "  is  n't  thee  a  little 
hasty?" 

"  Father,  I  decide  nothing.  It  is  in  Mary's  hands.  He 
thinks  my  presence  will  give  him  courage,  and  that  I  can 
not  refuse." 

The  next  morning,  the  people  of  Kennett  Square  were 
again  startled  out  of  their  proprieties  by  the  sight  of  Alfred 
Barton,  pale,  agitated,  and  avoiding  the  gaze  of  every  one, 
waiting  at  Dr.  Deane's  gate,  and  then  riding  side  by  side 
with  Martha  down  the  Wilmington  road.  An  hour  before, 
she  had  dispatched  Joe  Fairthorn  with  a  note  to  Gilbert, 
informing  him  of  the  impending  visit.  Once  on  the  way, 
she  feared  lest  she  had  ventured  too  far ;  it  might  be,  as 
her  father  had  said,  too  hasty ;  and  the  coming  meeting 


398  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

with  Gilbert  and  his  mother  disquieted  her  not  a  little.  It 
was  a  silent,  anxious  ride  for  both. 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  Gilbert  was  on  hand  to 
receive  them.  His  face  always  brightened  at  the  sight  of 
Martha,  and  his  hands  lifted  her  as  tenderly  as  ever  from 
the  saddle.  "  Have  I  done  right  ? "  she  anxiously  whis 
pered. 

"  It  is  for  mother  to  say,"  he  whispered  back. 

Alfred  Barton  advanced,  offering  his  hand.  Gilbert 
looked  upon  his  father's  haggard,  imploring  face,  a  mo 
ment;  a  recollection  of  his  own  disgrace  shot  into  his 
heart,  to  soften,  not  to  exasperate  ;  and  he  accepted  the 
hand.  Then  he  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

Mary  Barton  had  simply  said  to  her  son,—  "  I  felt  that  he 
would  come,  sooner  or  later,  and  that  I  must  give  him  a 
hearing  —  better  now,  perhaps,  since  you  and  Martha  will 
be  with  me." 

They  found  her  awaiting  them,  pale  and  resolute. 

Gilbert  and  Martha  moved  a  little  to  one  side,  leaving 
the  husband  and  wife  facing  each  other.  Alfred  Barton 
was  too  desperately  moved  to  shrink  from  Mary's  eyes ;  he 
strove  to  read  something  in  her  face,  which  might  spare 
him  the  pain  of  words  ;  but  it  was  a  strange  face  he  looked 
upon.  Not  that  of  the  black-eyed,  bright-cheeked  girl,  with 
the  proud  carriage  of  her  head  and  the  charming  scorn  of 
her  red  lip,  who  had  mocked,  fascinated,  and  bewildered 
him.  The  eyes  were  there,  but  they  had  sunk  into  the 
shade  of  the  brows,  and  looked  upon  him  with  an  im 
penetrable  expression ;  the  cheeks  were  pale,  the  mouth 
firm  and  rigid,  and  out  of  the  beauty  which  seduced  had 
grown  a  power  to  resist  and  command. 

"  Will  you  shake  hands  with  me,  Mary  ?  "  he  faltered. 

She  said  nothing,  but  moved  her  right  hand  slightly 
towards  him.  It  lay  in  his  own  a  moment,  cold  and 
passive. 

"  Mary  ! "  he  cried,  falling  on  his  knees  at  her  feet,  "  I  'rn 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  399 

a  ruined,  wretched  man  !  Xo  one  speaks  to  me  but  to 
curse  ;  I  've  no  friend  left  in  the  world  ;  the  very  farm 
hand  leaves  me  !  I  don't  know  what  '11  become  of  me, 
unless  you  feel  a  little  pity  —  not  that  I  deserve  any,  but  I 
ask  it  of  you,  in  the  name  of  God  !  " 

Martha  clung  -  to  Gilbert's  arm,  trembling,  and  more 
deeply  moved  than  she  was  willing  to  show.  Mary  Barton's 
face  was  convulsed  by  some  passing  struggle,  and  when  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  hoarse  and  broken. 

"  You  know  what  it  is,  then,"  she  said,  "  to  be  disgraced 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  If  you  have  suffered  so  much  in 
these  two  weeks,  you  may  guess  what  I  have  borne  for 
twenty-five  years ! " 

"  I  see  it  now,  Mary  I "  he  cried,  "  as  I  never  saw  it  be 
fore.  Try  me  !  Tell  me  what  to  do  ! " 

"  The  Lord  has  done  it,  already ;  there  is  nothing  left." 

He  groaned ;  his  head  dropped  hopelessly  upon  his 
breast. 

Gilbert  felt  that  Martha's  agitation  ceased.  She  quietly 
released  her  hold  of  his  arm,  lifted  her  head,  and  spoke,  — 

"  Mother,  forgive  me  if  I  speak  when  I  should  hold  my 
peace  ;  I  would  only  remind  you  that  there  is  yet  one  thing 
left.  It  is  true,  as  you  say ;  the  Lord  has  justified  you  in 
His  own  way,  and  at  His  own  time,  and  has  revenged  the 
wrong  done  to  you  by  branding  the  sin  committed  towards 
Himself.  Now  He  leaves  the  rest  to  your  own  heart 
Think  that  He  holds  back  and  waits  for  the  words  that 
shall  declare  whether  you  understand  the  spirit  in  which 
He  deals  towards  His  children  ! " 

';  Martha,  my  dear  child  ! "  Mary  Barton  exclaimed,  — 
"  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  advise  you,  mother.  You,  who  put 
my  impatient  pride  to  shame,  and  make  my  love  for  Gilbert 
seem  selfish  by  contrast  with  your  long  self-sacrifice  !  What 
right  have  I,  who  have  done  nothing,  to  speak  to  you,  who 
have  done  so  much  that  we  never  can  reckon  it  ?  But, 


400  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

remember  that  in  the  Lord's  government  of  the  world 
pardon  follows  repentance,  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  exact  like 
for  like,  to  the  uttermost  farthing  ! " 

Mary  Barton  sank  into  a  chair,  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  wept  aloud. 

There  were  tears  in  Martha's  eyes  ;  her  voice  trembled, 
and  her  words  came  with  a  softness  and  tenderness  that 
soothed  while  they  pierced : 

"  Mother,  I  am  a  woman  like  yourself;  and,  as  a  woman, 
I  feel  the  terrible  wrong  that  has  been  done  to  you.  It 
may  be  as  hard  for  you  now  to  forget,  as  then  to  bear ;  but 
it  is  certainly  greater  and  nobler  to  forgive  than  to  await 
justice  !  Because  I  reverence  you  as  a  strong  and  pure 
and  great-hearted  woman  — because  I  want  to  see  the  last 
and  best  and  sweetest  grace  of  our  sex  added  to  your  name 
—  and  lastly,  for  Gilbert's  sake,  who  can  feel  nothing  but 
pain  in  seeing  his  father  execrated  and  shunned  —  I  ask 
your  forgiveness  for  your  husband  !  " 

"  Mary ! "  Alfred  Barton  cried,  lifting  up  his  head  in  a 
last  appeal,  "  Mary,  this  much,  at  least !  Don't  go  to  the 
courts  for  a  divorce  !  Don't  get  back  your  own  name  for 
yourself  and  Gilbert!  Keep  mine,  and  make  it  more  re 
spectable  for  me  !  And  I  won't  ask  you  to  pardon  me,  for 
I  see  you  can't ! " 

"  It  is  all  clear  to  me,  at  last !  "  said  Mary  Barton.  "  I 
thank  you,  Martha,  my  child,  for  putting  me  in  the  right 
path.  Alfred,  don't  kneel  to  me ;  if  the  Lord  can  pardon, 
who  am  I  that  I  should  be  unforgiving  ?  I  fear  me  I  was 
nigh  to  forfeit  His  mercy.  Gilbert,  yours  was  half  the 
shame ;  yours  is  half  the  wrong ;  can  you  join  me  in  par 
doning  your  father  and  my  husband  ?  " 

Gilbert  was  powerfully  moved  by  the  conflict  of  equally 
balanced  emotions,  and  but  for  the  indication  which  Martha 
had  given,  he  might  not  at  once  have  been  able  to  decide. 
But  it  seemed  now  that  his  course  was  also  clear.  He 
said,  — 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  401 

"Mother,  since  you  have  asked  the  question,  I  know 
how  it  should  be  answered.  If  you  forgive  your  husband, 
I  forgive  my  —  my  father." 

He  stepped  forward,  seized  Alfred  Barton  gently  by  the 
shoulder,  and  raised  him  to  his  feet.  Mary  Barton  then 
took  her  husband's  hand  in  hers,  and  said,  in  a  solemn 
voice,  — 

"  I  forgive  you,  Alfred,  and  will  try  to  forget.  I  know 
not  what  you  may  have  heard  said,  but  I  never  meant  to 
go  before  the  court  for  a  divorce.  Your  name  is  a  part  of 
my  right,  a  part  of  Gilbert's  —  our  son's  —  right ;  it  is  true 
that  you  have  debased  the  name,  but  we  will  keep  it  and 
make  it  honorable !  We  will  not  do  that  to  the  name  of 
Barton  which  you  have  done  to  the  name  of  Potter ! " 

It  was  very  evident  that  though  she  had  forgiven,  she 
had  not  yet  forgotten.  The  settled  endurance  of  years 
could  not  be  unlearned  in  a  moment.  Alfred  Barton  felt 
that  her  forgiveness  implied  no  returning  tenderness,  not 
even  an  increase  of  respect ;  but  it  was  more  than  he  had 
dared  to  hope,  and  he  felt  humbly  grateful.  He  saw  that 
a  consideration  for  Gilbert's  position  had  been  the  chief 
element  to  which  he  owed  his  wife's  relenting  mood,  and 
this  knowledge  was  perhaps  his  greatest  encouragement. 

'•  Mary,"  he  said,  "  you  are  kinder  than  I  deserve.  I 
wish  I  could  make  you  and  Gilbert  understand  all  that 
I  have  felt.  Don't  think  my  place  was  easy ;  it  was  n't 
It  was  a  hell  of  another  kind.  I  have  been  punished  in 
my  way,  and  will  be  now  to  the  end  o'  my  life,  while  you 
two  will  be  looked  up  to,  and  respected  beyond  any  in  the 
neighborhood ;  and  if  I  'm  not  treated  like  a  dog,  it  '11  only 
be  for  your  sakes !  Will  you  let  me  say  to  the  people  that 
you  have  pardoned  me  ?  Will  you  say  it  yourselves  ?  " 

Martha,  and  perhaps  Gilbert  also,  felt  that  it  was  the 
reflected  image  of  Alfred  Barton's  meanness,  as  it  came 
back  to  him  in  the  treatment  he  had  experienced,  rather 
than  his  own  internal  consciousness  of  it,  which  occasioned 


402  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 

his  misery.  But  his  words  were  true  thus  far ;  his  life  was 
branded  by  it,  and  the  pardon  of  those  he  had  wronged 
could  not  make  that  life  more  than  tolerable. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Gilbert,  replying  to  him.  "  There  has 
been  enough  of  secrets.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  forgive 
ness  —  my  shame  is,  that  forgiveness  is  necessary." 

Alfred  Barton  looked  from  mother  to  son  with  a  singular, 
wistful  expression.  He  seemed  uncertain  whether  to  speak 
or  how  to  select  his  words.  His  vain,  arrogant  spirit  was 
completely  broken,  but  no  finer  moral  instinct  came  in  its 
place  to  guide  him ;  his  impulses  were  still  coarse,  and  took, 
from  habit,  the  selfish  color  of  his  nature.  There  are  some 
persons  whom  even  humiliation  clothes  with  a  certain  dig 
nity;  but  he  was  not  one  of  them.  There  are  others 
whose  tact,  in  such  emergencies,  assumes  the  features  of 
principle,  and  sets  up  a  feeble  claim  to  respect ;  but  this 
quality  is  a  result  of  culture,  which  he  did  not  possess.  He 
simply  saw  what  would  relieve  him  from  the  insupportable 
load  of  obloquy  under  which  he  groaned,  and  awkwardly 
hazarded  the  pity  he  had  excited,  in  asking  for  it. 

"  Mary,"  he  stammered,  "I  —  I  hardly  know  how  to  say 
the  words,  but  you  '11  understand  me ;  I  want  to  make  good 
to  you  all  the  wrong  I  did,  and  there  seems  no  way  but 
this,  —  if  you  '11  let  me  care  for  you,  slave  for  you,  anything 
you  please ;  you  shall  have  your  own  say  in  house  and 
farm ;  Ann  '11  give  up  everything  to  you.  She  always  liked 
you,  she  says,  and  she's  lonely  since  th'  old  man  died  and 
nobody  comes  near  us  —  not  just  at  once,  I  mean,  but  after 
awhile,  when  you  've  had  time  to  think  of  it,  and  Gilbert 's 
married.  You  're  independent  in  your  own  right,  I  know, 
and  need  n't  do  it ;  but,  see !  it  'd  give  me  a  chance,  and 
maybe  Gilbert  would  n't  feel  quite  so  hard  towards  me, 
and"  — 

He  stopped,  chilled  by  the  increasing  coldness  of  his 
wife's  face.  She  did  not  immediately  reply ;  to  Martha's 
eye  she  seemed  to  be  battling  with  some  proud,  vindictive 
instinct.  But  she  spoke  at  last,  and  calmly : 


THE  STORY  OF  KENXETT.  403 

"Alfred,  you  should  not  have  gone  so  far.  I  have  par 
doned  you,  and  that  means  more  than  the  words.  It  means 
that  I  must  try  to  overcome  the  bitterness  of  my  recollec 
tions,  that  I  must  curb  the  tongues  of  others  when  they  are 
raised  against  you,  must  greet  you  when  we  meet,  and  in 
all  proper  ways  show  the  truth  of  my  forgiveness  to  the 
world.  Anger  and  reproach  may  be  taken  from  the  heart, 
and  yet  love  be  as  far  off  as  ever.  If  anything  ever  could 
lead  me  back  to  you  it  would  not  be  love,  but  duty  to  my 
son,  and  his  desire ;  but  I  cannot  see  the  duty  now.  I  may 
never  see  it.  Do  not  propose  this  thing  again.  I  will  only 
say,  if  it  be  any  comfort  to  you,  that  if  you  try  to  show 
your  repentance  as  I  my  pardon,  try  to  clean  your  name 
from  the  stain  you  have  cast  upon  it,  my  respect  shall  keep 
pace  with  that  of  your  neighbors,  and  I  shall  in  this  way, 
and  in  no  other,  be  drawn  nearer  to  you ! " 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Alfred  Barton,  "  I  never  knew  your 
mother  before  to-day.  What  she  says  gives  me  some  hope, 
and  yet  it  makes  me  afraid.  I  '11  try  to  bring  her  nearer,  I 
will,  indeed ;  but  I  Ve  been  governed  so  long  by  th'  old 
man  that  I  don't  seem  to  have  any  right  strength  o'  my 
own.  I  must  have  some  help,  and  you  're  the  only  one  I 
can  ask  it  of;  will  you  come  and  see  me  sometimes?  I've 
been  so  proud  of  you,  all  to  myself,  my  boy !  and  if  I 
thought  you  could  once  call  me  '  father '  before  I  die  "  — 

Gilbert  was  not  proof  against  these  words  and  the 
honest  tears  by  which  they  were  accompanied.  Many  shy, 
hesitating  tokens  of  affection  in  his  former  intercourse  with 
Alfred  Barton,  suddenly  recurred  to  his  mind,  with  their 
true  interpretation.  His  load  had  been  light,  compared  to 
his  mother's ;  he  had  only  learned  the  true  wrong  in  the 
hour  of  reparation ;  and  moreover,  in  assuming  his  father's 
name  he  became  sensitive  to  the  prominence  of  its  shame. 

u  Father,"  he  answered,  "  if  you  have  forfeited  a  son's 
obedience,  you  have  still  a  man's  claim  to  be  helped. 
Mother  is  right ;  it  is  in  your  power  to  come  nearer  to  us. 


404  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

She  must  stand  aside  and  wait ;  but  I  can  cross  the  line 
which  separates  you,  and  from  this  time  on  I  shall  never 
cross  it  to  remind  you  of  what  is  past  and  pardoned,  but  to 
help  you,  and  all  of  us,  to  forget  it ! " 

Martha  laid  her  hand  upon  Gilbert's  shoulder,  leaned  up 
and  kissed  him  upon  the  cheek. 

"  Rest  here  ! "  she  said.  "  Let  a  good  word  close  the 
subject !  Gilbert,  take  your  father  out  and  show  him  your 
farm.  Mother,  it  is  near  dinner-time  ;  I  will  help  you  set 
the  table.  After  dinner,  Mr.  Barton,  you  and  I  will  ride 
home  together." 

Her  words  were  obeyed ;  each  one  felt  that  no  more 
should  be  said  at  that  time.  Gilbert  showed  the  barn,  the 
stables,  the  cattle  in  the  meadow,  and  the  fields  rejoicing 
in  the  soft  May  weather ;  Martha  busied  herself  in  kitchen 
and  cellar,  filling  up  the  pauses  of  her  labor  with  cheerful 
talk ;  and  when  the  four  met  at  the  table,  so  much  of  the 
constraint  in  their  relation  to  each  other  had  been  conquered, 
that  a  stranger  would  never  have  dreamed  of  the  gulf  which 
had  separated  them  a  few  hours  before.  Martha  shrewdly 
judged  that  when  Alfred  Barton  had  eaten  at  his  wife's 
table,  they  would  both  meet  more  easily  in  the  future.  She 
did  not  expect  that  the  breach  could  ever  be  quite  filled ; 
but  she  wished,  for  Gilbert's  sake,  to  make  it  as  narrow  as 
possible. 

After  dinner,  while  the  horses  were  being  saddled,  the 
lovers  walked  down  the  garden-path,  between  the  borders 
of  blue  iris  and  mountain-pink. 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Martha,  "  are  you  satisfied  with  what  has 
happened  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  but  it  has  shown  to  me  that  some 
thing  more  must  be  done." 

«  What  ?  " 

"  Martha,  are  these  the  only  two  who  should  be  brought 
nearer  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face.     There  was  a 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXXETT.  400 

laughing  light  in  his  eyes,  which  brought  a  new  lustre  to 
hers,  and  a  delicate  blush  to  her  fair  cheeks. 

"  Is  it  not  too  soon  for  me  to  come  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  You  have  come,"  he  answered ;  "  you  were  in  your 
place;  and  it  will  be  empty  —  the  house  will  be  lonely, 
the  farm  without  its  mistress  —  until  you  return  to 


us  l 


f  » 


406  THE  STORY  OF  KENNETT. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE    WEDDING. 

THE  neighborhood  had  decreed  it.  There  was  but  one 
just,  proper,  and  satisfactory  conclusion  to  all  these  events. 
The  decision  of  Kennett  was  unanimous  that  its  story 
should  be  speedily  completed.  New- Garden,  Maryborough, 
and  Pennsbury,  so  far  as  heard  from,  gave  their  hearty 
consent;  and  the  people  would  have  been  seriously  dis 
appointed  —  the  tide  of  sympathy  might  even  have  been 
checked  —  had  not  Gilbert  Barton  and  Martha  Deane  pre 
pared  to  fulfil  the  parts  assigned  to  them. 

Dr.  Deane,  of  course,  floated  with  the  current.  He  was 
too  shrewd  to  stand  forth  as  a  conspicuous  obstacle  to  the 
consummation  of  the  popular  sense  of  justice.  He  gave, 
at  once,  his  full  consent  to  the  nuptials,  and  took  the  neces 
sary  steps,  in  advance,  for  the  transfer  of  his  daughter's 
fortune  into  her  own  hands.  In  short,  as  Miss  Lavender 
observed,  there  was  an  end  of  snarls.  The  lives  of  the 
lovers  were  taken  up,  as  by  a  skilful  hand,  and  evenly 
reeled  together. 

Gilbert  now  might  have  satisfied  his  ambition  (and  the 
people,  under  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case,  would 
have  sanctioned  it)  by  buying  the  finest  farm  in  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  but  Martha  had  said,  — 

"  No  other  farm  can  be  so  much  yours,  and  none  so  wel 
come  a  home  to  me.  Let  us  be  satisfied  with  it,  at  least 
for  the  first  years." 

And  therein  she  spoke  wisely. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  May,  and  the  land  was  clothed 


THE  STORY   OF   KEXNETT.  407 

in  tender  green,  and  filled  with  the  sweet  breath  of  sap 
and  bud  and  blossom.  The  vivid  emerald  of  the  willow- 
trees,  the  blush  of  orchards,  and  the  cones  of  snowy  bloom 
along  the  wood-sides,  shone  through  and  illumined  even 
the  days  of  rain.  The  Month  of  Marriage  wooed  them  in 
every  sunny  morning,  in  every  twilight  fading  under  the 
torch  of  the  lovers'  star. 

In  spite  of  Miss  Lavender's  outcries,  and  Martha's  grave 
doubts,  a  fortnight's  delay  was  all  that  Gilbert  would  allow. 
He  would  have  dispensed  with  bridal  costumes  and  merry 
makings,  —  so  little  do  men  understand  of  these  matters ; 
but  he  was  hooted  down,  overruled,  ignored,  and  made  to 
feel  his  proper  insignificance.  Martha  almost  disappeared 
from  his  sight  during  the  interval.  She  was  sitting  up 
stairs  in  a  confusion  of  lutestring,  whalebone,  silk,  and  cam 
bric  ;  and  when  she  came  down  to  him  for  a  moment,  the 
kiss  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  before  she  began  to  speak  of 
the  make  of  his  new  coat,  and  the  fashion  of  the  articles 
he  was  still  expected  to  furnish. 

If  he  visited  Fairthorn's,  it  was  even  worse.  The  sight 
of  him  threw  Sally  into  such  a  flutter  that  she  sewed  the 
right  side  of  one  breadth  to  the  wrong  side  of  another,  at 
tempted  to  clear-starch  a  woollen  stocking,  or  even,  on  one 
occasion,  put  a  fowl  into  the  pot,  unpicked  and  undressed. 
It  was  known  all  over  the  country  that  Sally  and  Mark 
Deane  were  to  be  bridesmaid  and  groomsman,  and  they 
both  determined  to  make  a  brave  appearance. 

But  there  was  another  feature  of  the  coming  nuptials 
which  the  people  did  not  know.  Gilbert  and  Martha  had 
determined  that  Miss  Betsy  Lavender  should  be  second 
bridesmaid,  and  Martha  had  sent  to  Wilmington  for  a  pur 
ple  silk,  and  a  stomacher  of  the  finest  cambric,  in  which  to 
array  her.  A  groomsman  of  her  age  was  not  so  easy  to 
find ;  but  young  Pratt,  who  had  stood  so  faithfully  by  Gil 
bert  during  the  chase  of  Sandy  Flash,  merrily  avowed  his 
willingness  to  play  the  part ;  and  so  it  was  settled  without 
Miss  Lavender's  knowledge. 


408  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

The  appointed  morning  came,  bringing  a  fair  sky,  mot 
tled  with  gentle,  lingering  clouds,  and  a  light  wind  from 
the  west.  The  wedding  company  were  to  meet  at  Kennett 
Square,  and  then  ride  to  Squire  Sinclair's,  where  the  cere 
mony  would  be  performed  by  that  magistrate  ;  and  before 
ten  o'clock,  the  hour  appointed  for  starting,  all  the  sur 
rounding  neighborhood  poured  into  the  village.  The 
hitching-bar  in  front  of  the  Unicorn,  and  every  post  of 
fence  or  garden-paling,  was  occupied  by  the  tethered 
horses.  The  wedding-guests,  comprising  some  ten  or  fif 
teen  persons,  assembled  at  Dr.  Deane's,  and  each  couple, 
as  they  arrived,  produced  an  increasing  excitement  among 
the  spectators. 

The  fact  that  Alfred  Barton  had  been  formally  pardoned 
by  his  wife  and  son,  did  not  lessen  the  feeling  with  which 
he  was  regarded,  but  it  produced  a  certain  amount  of  for 
bearance.  The  people  were  curious  to  know  whether  he 
had  been  bidden  to  the  wedding,  and  the  conviction  was 

O7 

general  that  he  had  no  business  to  be  there.  The  truth  is, 
it  had  been  left  free  to  him  whether  to  come  or  not,  and  he 
had  very  prudently  chosen  to  be  absent. 

Dr.  Deane  had  set  up  a  "  chair,"  which  was  to  be  used 
for  the  first  time  on  this  occasion.  It  was  a  ponderous 
machine,  with  drab  body  and  wheels,  and  curtains  of  drab 
camlet  looped  up  under  its  stately  canopy.  When  it  ap 
peared  at  the  gate,  the  Doctor  came  forth,  spotless  in  attire, 
bland,  smiling,  a  figure  of  sober  gloss  and  agreeable  odors. 
He  led  Mary  Barton  by  the  hand  ;  and  her  steel-colored 
silk  and  white  crape  shawl  so  well  harmonized  with  his 
appearance,  that  the  two  might  have  been  taken  for  man 
and  wife.  Her  face  was  calm,  serene,  and  full  of  quiet 
gratitude.  They  took  their  places  in  the  chair,  the  lines 
were  handed  to  the  Doctor,  and  he  drove  away,  nodding 
light  and  left  to  the  crowd. 

'Now   the    horses  were   brought   up   in   pairs,   and   the 
younger  guests   began   to  mount.      The  people  gathered 


THE   STORY   OF   KEXNETT.  400 

closer  and  closer ;  and  when  Sam  appeared,  leading  the 
well-known  and  beloved  Roger,  there  was  a  murmur  which, 
in  a  more  demonstrative  community,  would  have  been  a 
cheer.  Somebody  had  arranged  a  wreath  of  lilac  and 
snowy  viburnum,  and  fastened  it  around  Roger's  forehead ; 
and  he  seemed  to  wear  it  consciously  and  proudly.  Many 
a  hand  was  stretched  forth  to  pat  and  stroke  the  noble  ani 
mal,  and  everybody  smiled  when  he  laid  his  head  caress 
ingly  over  the  neck  of  Martha's  gray. 

Finally,  only  six  horses  remained  unmounted;  then 
there  seemed  to  be  a  little  delay  in-doors.  It  was  ex 
plained  when  young  Pratt  appeared,  bold  and  bright,  lead 
ing  the  reluctant  Miss  Lavender,  rustling  in  purple  splen 
dor,  and  blushing  —  actually  blushing  —  as  she  encountered 
the  eyes  of  the  crowd.  The  latter  were  delighted.  There 
was  no  irony  in  the  voice  that  cried,  —  "  Hurrah  for  Betsy 
Lavender !  "  and  the  cheer  that  followed  was  the  expression 
of  a  downright,  hearty  good  will.  She  looked  around  from 
her  saddle,  blushing,  smiling,  and  on  the  point  of  bursting 
into  tears ;  and  it  was  a  godsend,  as  she  afterwards  re 
marked,  that  Mark  Deane  and  Sally  Fairthorn  appeared  at 
that  moment. 

Mark,  in  sky-blue  coat  and  breeches,  suggested,  with  his 
rosy  face  and  yellow  locks,  a  son  of  the  morning ;  while 
Sally's  white  muslin  and  cherry-colored  scarf  heightened 
the  rich  beauty  of  her  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  her  full, 
pouting  lips.  They  were  a  buxom  pair,  and  both  were  too 
happy  in  each  other  and  in  the  occasion,  to  conceal  the 
least  expression  of  it. 

There  now  only  remained  our  hero  and  heroine,  who  im 
mediately  followed.  No  cheer  greeted  them,  for  the  won 
derful  chain  of  circumstances  which  had  finally  brought 
them  together,  made  the  joy  of  the  day  solemn,  and  the 
sympathy  of  the  people  reverential.  Mark  and  Sally  rep 
resented  the  delight  of  betrothal ;  these  two  the  earnest 
sanctity  of  wedlock. 


410  THE  STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

Gilbert  was  plainly  yet  richly  dressed  in  a  bottle-green 
coat,  with  white  waistcoat  and  breeches  ;  his  ruffles,  gloves, 
hat,  and  boots  were  irreproachable.  So  manly  looking  a 
bridegroom  had  not  been  seen  in  Kennett  for  many  a  day. 
Martha's  dress  of  heavy  pearl-gray  satin  was  looped  up 
over  a  petticoat  of  white  dimity,  and  she  wore  a  short  cloak 
of  white  crape.  Her  hat,  of  the  latest  style,  was  adorned 
with  a  bunch  of  roses  and  a  white,  drooping  feather.  In 
the  saddle,  she  was  charming  ;  and  as  the  bridal  pair  slowly 
rode  forward,  followed  by  their  attendants  in  the  proper 
order,  a  murmur  of  admiration,  in  which  there  was  no  envy 
and  no  ill-natured  qualification,  went  after  them. 

A  soft  glitter  of  sunshine,  crossed  by  the  shadows  of 
slow-moving  clouds,  lay  upon  the  landscape.  Westward, 
the  valley  opened  in  quiet  beauty,  the  wooded  hills  on 
either  side  sheltering,  like  protecting  arms,  the  white  farm 
houses,  the  gardens,  and  rosy  orchards  scattered  along  its 
floor.  On  their  left,  the  tall  grove  rang  with  the  music  of 
birds,  and  was  gay,  through  all  its  light-green  depths,  with 
the  pink  blossoms  of  the  wild  azalea.  The  hedges,  on 
either  side,  were  purple  with  young  sprays,  and  a  bright, 
breathing  mass  of  sweet-brier  and  wild  grape  crowned  the 
overhanging  banks,  between  which  the  road  ascended  the 
hill  beyond. 

At  first  the  company  were  silent ;  but  the  enlivening 
motion  of  the  horses,  the  joy  of  the  coming  summer,  the 
affectionate  sympathy  of  Nature,  soon  disposed  them  to  a 
lighter  mood.  At  Hallowell's,  the  men  left  their  hoes  in 
the  corn-field,  and  the  women  their  household  duties,  to 
greet  them  by  the  roadside.  Mark  looked  up  at  the  new 
barn,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  Not  quite  a  year  ago  !     Do  you  mind  it,  Gilbert  ?  " 

Martha  pointed  to  the  green  turf  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  said  with  an  arch  voice,  — 

"  Gilbert,  do  you  remember  the  question  you  put  to  me, 
that  evening  ?  " 


THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT.  411 

And  finally  Sally  burst  out,  in  mock  indignation,  — 

"  Gilbert,  there  's  where  you  snapped  me  up,  because  I 
wanted  you  to  dance  with  Martha ;  what  do  you  think  of 
yourself  now  ?  " 

"  You  all  forget,"  he  answered,  "  that  you  are  speaking 
of  somebody  else." 

"  How  ?  somebody  else  ?  "  asked  Sally. 

«  Yes  ;  I  mean  Gilbert  Potter." 

"  Not  a  bad  turn-off,"  remarked  Miss  Lavender.  "  He  's 
too  much  for  you.  But  I  'm  glad,  anyhow,  you  Ve  got 
your  tongues,  for  it  was  too  much  like  a  buryin'  before,  and 
me  fixed  up  like  King  Solomon,  what  for,  I  'd  like  to 
know  ?  and  the  day  made  o'  purpose  for  a  weddin',  and 
true-love  all  right  for  once't  —  I  'd  like  just  to  holler  and 
sing  and  make  merry  to  my  heart's  content,  with  a  nice 
young  man  alongside  o'  me,  too,  a  thing  that  don't  often 
happen ! " 

They  were  heartily,  but  not  boisterously,  merry  after 
this ;  but  as  they  reached  the  New-Garden  road,  there 
came  a  wild  yell  from  the  rear,  and  the  noise  of  galloping 
hoofs.  Before  the  first  shock  of  surprise  had  subsided,  the 
Fairthorn  gray  mare  thundered  up,  with  Joe  and  Jake  upon 
her  back,  the  scarlet  lining  of  their  blue  cloaks  flying  to 
the  wind,  their  breeches  covered  with  white  hair  from  the 
mare's  hide,  and  their  faces  wild  with  delight.  They  yelled 
again  as  they  drew  rein  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 

"  TThy,  what  upon  earth  "  —  began  Sally ;  but  Joe  saved 
her  the  necessity  of  a  question. 

"  Daddy  said  we  should  n't  go !  "  he  cried.  "  But  we 
would,  —  we  got  Bonnie  out  o'  the  field,  and  put  off! 
Cousin  Martha,  you  '11  let  us  go  along  and  see  you  get 
married  ;  won't  you,  now  ?  Maybe  we  '11  never  have 
another  chance ! " 

This  incident  produced  great  amusement  The  boys 
received  the  permission  they  coveted,  but  were  ordered  to 
the  rear  Mark  reminding  them  that  as  he  was  soon  to  be 


412  THE   STORY   OF  KENNETT. 

their  uncle,  they  must  learn,  betimes,  to  give  heed  to  his 
authority. 

"  Be  quiet,  Mark ! "  exclaimed  Sally,  with  a  gentle  slap. 

"  Well,  I  don't  begrudge  it  to  'em,"  said  Miss  Lavender. 
"  It 's  somethin'  for  'em  to  remember  when  they  're  men- 
grown  ;  and  they  belong  to  the  fam'ly,  which  I  don't ;  but 
never  mind,  all  the  same,  no  more  do  you,  Mr.  Pratt ;  and 
I  wish  I  was  younger,  to  do  credit  to  you !  " 

Merrily  trotted  the  horses  along  the  bit  of  level  upland  ; 
and  then,  as  the  land  began  to  fall  towards  the  western 
branch  of  Redley  Creek,  they  saw  the  Squire's  house  on  a 
green  knoll  to  the  north,  and  Dr.  Deane's  new  chair  already 
resting  in  the  shade  of  the  gigantic  sycamore  at  the  door. 
The  lane-gates  were  open,  the  Squire's  parlor  was  arranged 
for  their  reception  ;  and  after  the  ladies  had  put  themselves 
to  rights,  in  the  upper  rooms,  the  company  gathered  to 
gether  for  the  ceremony. 

Sunshine,  and  hum  of  bees,  and  murmur  of  winds,  and 
scent  of  flowers,  came  in  through  the  open  windows,  and 
the  bridal  pair  seemed  to  stand  in  the  heart  of  the  perfect 
spring-time.  Yet  tears  were  shed  by  all  the  women  except 
the  bride  ;  and  Sally  Fairthorn  was  so  absorbed  by  the 
rush  of  her  emotions,  that  she  came  within  an  ace  of  say 
ing  "  I  will ! "  when  the  Squire  put  the  question  to  Martha. 
The  ceremony  was  brief  and  plain,  but  the  previous  his 
tory  of  the  parties  made  it  very  impressive.  When  they 
had  been  pronounced  man  and  wife,  and  the  certificate  of 
marriage  had  been  duly  signed  and  witnessed  by  all  pres 
ent,  Mary  Barton  stepped  forward  and  kissed  her  son  and 
daughter  with  a  solemn  tenderness.  Then  the  pent-up 
feelings  of  all  the  others  broke  loose,  and  the  amount  of 
embracing  which  followed  was  something  quite  unusual  for 
Kennett.  Betsy  Lavender  was  not  cheated  out  of  her  due 
share  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  ever  afterwards  reported 
that  she  received  more  salutes  than  even  the  bride.  She 
was  kissed  by  Gilbert,  by  Mark,  by  her  young  partner,  by 


THE   STORY   OF  KEXXETT.  413 

Dr.  Deane,  and  lastly  by  the  jolly  Squire  himself,  —  to  say 
nothing  of  the  feminine  kisses,  which,  indeed,  being  very 
imperfect  gifts,  hardly  deserve  to  be  recorded. 

'•  Well !  "  she  exclaimed,  pushing  her  ruffled  hair  behind 
her  ears,  and  smoothing  down  her  purple  skirt,  "  to  think 
o'  my  bein'  kissed  by  so  many  men,  in  my  old  days !  — 
but  why  not  ?  —  it  may  be  my  last  chance,  as  Joe  Fair- 
thorn  says,  and  laugh  if  you  please,  I  've  got  the  best  of 
it ;  and  I  don't  belie  my  natur',  for  twistin'  your  head  away 
and  screechin'  is  only  make-believe,  and  the  more  some 
screeches  the  more  they  want  to  be  kissed  ;  but  fair  and 
square,  say  I,  —  if  you  want  it  take  it,  and  that 's  just 
what  I  've  done  !  " 

There  was  a  fresh  rush  for  Miss  Lavender  after  this, 
and  she  stood  her  ground  with  commendable  patience, 
until  Mark  ventured  to  fold  her  in  a  good-natured  hug, 
when  she  pushed  him  away,  saying,  — 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't  spile  my  new  things  ! 
There  —  go  'way,  now !  I  've  had  enough  to  last  me 
ten  year ! " 

Dr.  Deane  soon  set  out  with  Mary  Barton,  in  the  chair, 
and  the  rest  of  the  company  mounted  their  horses,  to  ride 
back  to  Kennett  Square  by  the  other  road,  past  the  quar 
ries  and  across  Tuifkenamon. 

As  they  halted  in  the  broad,  shallow  bed  of  the  creek, 
letting  their  horses  drink  from  the  sparkling  water,  while 
the  wind  rollicked  among  the  meadow  bloom  of  golden 
saxifrage  and  scarlet  painted -cup  and  blue  spiderwort 
before  them,  the  only  accident  of  the  day  occurred ;  but 
it  was  not  of  a  character  to  disturb  their  joyous  mood. 

The  old  Fairthorn  mare  stretched  her  neck  to  its  ut 
most  length  before  she  bent  it  to  drink,  obliging  Joe  to 
lean  forwards  over  her  shoulder,  to  retain  his  hold  of  the 
short  rein.  Jake,  holding  on  to  Joe,  leaned  with  him,  and 
they  waited  in  this  painful  posture  till  the  mare  slowly 
filled  herself  from  the  stream.  Finally  she  seemed  to  be 


414  THE   STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

satisfied ;  she  paused,  snorted,  and  then,  with  wide  nostrils, 
drank  an  equal  amount  of  air.  Her  old  sides  swelled; 
the  saddle-girth,  broken  in  two  places  long  before,  and 
mended  with  tow-strings,  suddenly  parted,  and  Joe,  Jake, 
saddle  and  all,  tumbled  down  her  neck  into  the  water. 
They  scrambled  out  in  a  lamentable  plight,  soused  and 
dripping,  amid  the  endless  laughter  of  the  company,  and 
were  glad  to  keep  to  the  rear  for  the  remainder  of  the 
ride. 

In  Dr.  Deane's  house,  meanwhile,  there  were  great  prep 
arations  for  the  wedding-dinner.  A  cook  had  been  brought 
from  Wilmington,  at  an  unheard-of  expense,  and  the  village 
was  filled  with  rumors  of  the  marvellous  dishes  she  was  to 
produce.  There  were  pippins  encased  in  orange-peel  and 
baked  ;  a  roasted  peacock,  with  tail  spread ;  a  stuffed  rock- 
fish  ;  a  whole  ham  enveloped  in  dough,  like  a  loaf  of  bread, 
and  set  in  the  oven  ;  and  a  wilderness  of  the  richest  and 
rarest  pies,  tarts,  and  custards. 

Whether  all  these  rumors  were  justified  by  the  dinner, 
we  will  not  undertake  to  say ;  it  is  certain  that  the  meal, 
which  was  spread  in  the  large  sitting-room,  was  most  boun 
tiful.  No  one  was  then  shocked  by  the  decanters  of  Port 
and  Canary  wine  upon  the  sideboard,  or  refused  to  par 
take  of  the  glasses  of  foamy  egg-nog  offered  to  them  from 
time  to  time,  through  the  afternoon.  The  bride-cake  was 
considered  a  miracle  of  art,  and  the  fact  that  Martha  di 
vided  it  with  a  steady  hand,  making  the  neatest  and  clean 
est  of  cuts,  was  considered  a  good  omen  for  her  married 
life.  Bits  of  the  cake  were  afterwards  in  great  demand 
throughout  the  neighborhood,  not  so  much  to  eat,  as  to 
dream  upon. 

The  afternoon  passed  away  rapidly,  with  mirth  and 
noise,  in  the  adjoining  parlor.  Sally  Fairthorn  found  a 
peculiar  pleasure  in  calling  her  friend  "  Martha  Barton  !  " 
whereupon  Mark  said,  — 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Martha,  and  you  can  pay  her  back.    Daddy 


THE  STORY  OF  KEXXETT.  415 

Fairthorn  promised  this  morning  to  give  me  a  buildin' 
lot  off  the  field  back  o'  the  corner,  and  just  as  soon  as 
Rudd's  house  is  up,  I  'm  goin'  to  work  at  mine." 

"  Mark,  do  hush  ! "  Sally  exclaimed,  reddening,  "  and 
before  everybody ! " 

Miss  Lavender  sat  in  the  midst,  stately,  purple,  and  so 
transformed  that  she  professed  she  no  longer  knew  her 
own  self.  She  was.  nevertheless,  the  life  of  the  company ; 
the  sense  of  what  she  had  done  to  bring  on  the  marriage 
was  a  continual  source  of  inspiration.  Therefore,  when 
songs  were  proposed  and  sung,  and  Mark  finally  called 
upon  her,  uproariously  seconded  by  all  the  rest,  she  was 
moved,  for  the  last  time  in  her  life,  to  comply. 

"  I  dun  no  what  you  mean,  expectin'  such  a  thing  o'  me," 
she  said.  "  'Pears  to  me  I  'm  fool  enough  already,  settin' 
here  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  like  the  Queen  o'  Rome, — 
not  that  I  don't  like  singin',  but  the  contrary,  quite  the 
reverse ;  but  with  me  it  'd  be  a  squawk  and  nothin'  else  ; 
and  fine  feathers  may  make  fine  birds  for  what  I  care, 
more  like  a  poll-parrot  than  a  nightingale,  and  they  say 
you  must  stick  thorns  into  'em  to  make  'em  sing;  but  I 
guess  it  '11  be  t'  other  way,  and  my  singin'  '11  stick  thorns 
into  you  !  " 

They  would  take  no  denial ;  she  could  and  must  sing 
them  a  song.  She  held  out  until  Martha  said,  "for  my 
wedding-day,  Betsy  ! "  and  Gilbert  added,  "  and  mine,  too." 
Then  she  declared,  "  Well,  if  I  must,  I  s'pose  I  must. 
But  as  for  weddin'-songs,  such  as  I  Ve  heerd  in  my  younger 
days,  I  dunno  one  of  'em,  and  my  head  's  pretty  much 
cleared  o'  such  things,  savin'  and  exceptin'  one  that  might 
be  a  sort  o'  warnin'  for  Mark  Deane,  who  knows  ?  —  not 
that  there  's  sea-farm'  men  about  these  parts;  but  never 
mind,  all  the  same ;  if  you  don't  like  it,  Mark,  you  Ve  brung 
it  onto  yourself! " 

Thereupon,  after  shaking  herself,  gravely  composing  her 
face,  and  clearing  her  throat,  she  began,  in  a  high,  shrill, 


416  TE1E   STORY   OF   KEXXETT. 

piercing  voice,  rocking  her  head  to  the  peculiar  lilt  of  the 
words,  and  interpolating  short  explanatory  remarks,  to 
sing  — 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  HOUSE-CARPENTER. 

" '  Well-met,  well-met,  my  own  true-love !  ' 
"She  says,  — 

'Well-met,  well-met,  cried  lie; 
For  't  is  I  have  returned  from  the  salt,  salt  sea, 
And  it 's  all  for  the  love  of  thee ! ' 

"  '  It 's  I  might  ha'  married  a  king's  daughter  fair,' 
"He  goes  on  sayin',  — 

'  And  fain  would  she  ha'  married  me, 
But  it 's  I  have  refused  those  crowns  of  gold, 
And  it  's  all  for  the  love  of  thee ! ' 

"Then  she,— 

"  '  If  you  might  ha'  married  a  king's  daughter  fair,' 

I  think  you  are  for  to  blame ; 
For  it 's  I  have  married  a  house-carpenter, 
And  I  think  he  's  a  fine  young  man  !  ' 

"  So  look  out,  Mark !  and  remember,  all  o'  you,  that  they  're 
talkin'  turn  about ;  and  he  begins  — 

" '  If  you  '11  forsake  your  house-carpenter 

And  go  along  with  me, 
I  '11  take  you  to  where  the  grass  grows  green 
On  the  banks  of  the  sweet  Wil-lee ! ' 

"  '  If  I  forsake  my  house-carpenter, 

And  go  along  with  thee, 

It 's  what  have  you  got  for  to  maintain  me  upon, 
And  to  keep  me  from  slave-ree  ?  ' 

" '  It 's  I  have  sixteen  ships  at  sea, 

All  sailing  for  dry  land, 
And  four-and-twenty  sailors  all  on  board 
Shall  be  at  your  command ! ' 

"  She  then  took  up  her  lovely  little  babe, 

And  she  gave  it  kisses  three ; 
'  Lie  still,  lie  still,  my  lovely  little  babe, 
And  keep  thy  father  compa-nee !  ' 


THE   STORY  OF   KEXXETT.  417 

"  She  dressed  herself  in  rich  array, 

And  she  walked  in  high  degree, 
And  the  four-and-twenty  sailors  took  'em  on  board, 
And  they  sailed  for  the  open  sea ! 

"  They  had  not  been  at  sea  two  weeks, 

And  I  'm  sure  it  was  not  three, 
Before  this  maid  she  began  for  to  weep, 
And  she  wept  most  bitter-lee. 

" '  It 's  do  you  weep  for  your  gold  ?  '  cries  he ; 

'  Or  do  you  weep  for  your  store, 
Or  do  you  weep  for  your  house-carpenter 
You  never  shall  see  any  more  ?  ' 

u  *  I  do  not  weep  for  my  gold,'  cries  she, 

'Kor  I  do  not  weep  for  my  store, 
But  it 's  I  do  weep  for  my  lovely  little  babe, 
I  never  shall  see  any  more ! ' 

"  They  had  not  been  at  sea  three  weeks, 

And  T  'm  sure  it  was  not  four, 
"When  the  vessel  it  did  spring  a  leak, 
And  it  sank  to  rise  no  more !  " 

"  Xow,  Mark,  here  comes  the  Moral : 

"  Oh,  cruel  be  ye,  sea-farm'  men, 

Oh,  cruel  be  your  lives,  — 
A-robbing  of  the  house-carpenters, 
And  a-taking  of  their  wives!  " 

The  shouts  and  laughter  which  greeted  the  conclusion 
of  Miss  Lavender's  song  brought  Dr.  Deane  into  the  room. 
He  was  a  little  alarmed  lest  his  standing  in  the  Society 
might  be  damaged  by  so  much  and  such  unrestrained  mer 
riment  under  his  roof.  Still  he  had  scarcely  the  courage 
to  reprimand  the  bright,  joyous  faces  before  him  ;  he  only 
smiled,  shook  his  head,  and  turned  to  leave. 

"  I  'm  a-goin',  too,"  said  Miss  Lavender,  rising.  "  The 
sun  's  not  an  hour  high,  and  the  Doctor,  or  somebody,  must 
take  Mary  Barton  home ;  and  it 's  about  time  the  rest  o' 
you  was  makin'  ready ;  though  they  've  gone  on  with  the 
supper,  there  's  enough  to  do  when  you  get  there  ! " 

The  chair  rolled  away  again,  and  the  bridal  parfy  re- 
27 


418  THE   STOKY   OF   KENNETT. 

mounted  their  horses  in  the  warm,  level  light  of  the  sink 
ing  sun.  They  were  all  in  their  saddles  except  Gilbert 
and  Martha. 

"  Go  on  ! "  he  cried,  in  answer  to  their  calls ;  "  we  will 
follow." 

"  It  won't  be  half  a  home-comin',  without  you  're  along," 
said  Mark;  "but  I  see  you  want  it  so,  Come  on,  boys 
and  girls ! " 

Gilbert  returned  to  the  house  and  met  Martha,  descend 
ing  the  stairs  in  her  plain  riding-dress.  She  descended 
into  his  open  arms,  and  rested  there,  silent,  peaceful,  filled 
with  happy  rest. 

"  My  wife  at  last,  and  forever ! "  he  whispered. 

They  mounted  and  rode  out  of  the  village.  The  fields 
were  already  beginning  to  grow  gray  under  the  rosy  amber 
of  the  western  sky.  The  breeze  had  died  away,  but  the 
odors  it  had  winnowed  from  orchard  and  meadow  still 
hung  in  the  air.  Faint  cheeps  and  chirps  of  nestling  life . 
came  from  the  hedges  and  grassy  nooks  of  bank  and 
thicket,  but  they  deepened,  not  disturbed,  the  delicious 
repose  settling  upon  the  land.  Husband  and  wife  rode 
slowly,  and  their  friendly  horses  pressed  nearer  to  each 
other,  and  there  was  none  to  see  how  their  eyes  grew 
deeper  and  darker  with  perfect  tenderness,  their  lips  more 
sweetly  soft  and  warm,  with  the  unspoken,  because  un 
speakable,  fortune  of  love.  In  the  breath  of  that  happy 
twilight  all  the  pangs  of  the  Past  melted  away ;  disgrace, 
danger,  poverty,  trial,  were  behind  them ;  and  before  them, 
nestling  yet  unseen  in  the  green  dell  which  divided  the 
glimmering  landscape,  lay  the  peace,  the  shelter,  the  life 
long  blessing  of  Home. 


THE   END. 


£tst   of  Cooks   publisljeb   bg 

HURD  AND  HOUGHTON. 

Bayard  Taylor's   Writings. 

The  Story  of  Kennett. 

A  Novel.     12mo.     Price  $2.25. 

John  Godfrey's  Fortunes: 

Related  by  himself.     A  Story  of  American  Life.     12mo 
Price  $2.25. 

Hannah  Thurston : 

A  Story  of  American  Life.    12mo.    Price  32.25. 

Eldorado : 

Or,  Adventures  in  the  Path  of  Empire  (Mexico  and  Cali 
fornia).     12mo.    Price  §2.25. 

Central  Africa: 

Life  and  Landscape  from  Cairo  to  the  White  Nile.     12mo 
Price  52.25. 

Greece  and  Russia: 

With  an  Excursion  to  Crete.     12mo.    Price  $2.25. 

Home  and  Abroad: 

A  Sketch-Book  of  Life,  Scenery,  and  Men.     12mo.     Price 
$2.25. 

Home  and  Abroad.    (SECOND  SERIES.) 
A  new  volume.     12mo.    Price  $2.25. 

India,  China,  and  Japan. 

12mo.     Price  $2.25. 

Lands  of  the  Saracen: 

Or,  Pictures  of  Palestine,  Asia  Minor,  Sicily,  and  Spain. 
12mo.     Price  $2.25. 

Northern  Travel: 

Summer  and  Winter  Pictures  of  Sweden,  Denmark,  and 
Lapland.     12mo.     Price  32.25. 

Views  A-Poot: 

Or,  Europe  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff.     12mo.    Price 
•2.25. 


LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED. 


NEW  EDITION  OF  IRVING. 

TifE  COMPLETE  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 
now  issuing  in  portable  16mo.  volumes,  with  appropriate  Vig 
nettes  and  Ornaments,  under  the  title  of  the  "  Riverside 
Edition."  Each  volume  sold  separately. 

Now  ready. 

SKETCH-BOOK,  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL, 

KNICKERBOCKER,  ALHAMBRA, 

GOLDSMITH,  WOLFERT'S  ROOST, 

THE  TRAVELLER,  CRAYON. 

16mo.  vellum  cloth,  gilt  tops,  each  $2.00. 

Irving's  Works.  Sunnyside  Edition,  including  the  Life  of 
Irving  by  his  Nephew,  PIERRE  M.  IRVING.  Printed  on 
tinted  paper,  and  with  numerous  illustrations.  26  vols.  12mo. 
Price  each  $2.50.  Half  calf,  each  $4.00. 

Irving's  Life  of  Washington.  Sunnyside  Edition. 
Printed  on  tinted  paper,  and  with  numerous  steel  engravings. 

5  vols.    12mo.    Price  $12.50.     Half  calf,  $20.00. 

Irving's  Life  and  Letters.  Edited  by  his  Nephew, 
PIERRE  M.  IRVING.  Sunnyside  Edition.  Printed  on  tinted 
paper,  and  with  numerous  illustrations.  4  vols.  12mo. 
Price  $10.00.  Half  calf,  $16.00. 

The  Complete  Works  of  Thomas  Hood.  With 
Illustrations  from  his  own  Designs.  Printed  on  tinted  paper. 

6  vols.    Crown  8vo.    Price  $15.00.    Half  calf,  $24.00. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

7  Dec'57MF 
REC'D  LD 


DEC    6  1957 


IAY  1 5  1977 


REC'D  LD 


-, 


, 

3WW  w 

,\ 

.«) 

Due  end 
subject 

•  '\ 

to  csail  m*f~ 

*"     AHK  19'fl  ^| 

nil 

tf*   67^* 

f 

.«&&  l 

LD  21A-50m-8,'57 
(G8481slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


U. „£.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


